


A Study In Dragons

by theavidreader13



Series: Memoirs of a Detective and a Dragon [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Magic, SherlockBBC - Freeform, dragon!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 13:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6376234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theavidreader13/pseuds/theavidreader13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A murder leaves NSY clueless (as always) and Sherlock Holmes and his new flatmate John Watson are on the case. John has no idea what he's getting into. Magic!AU, with fae!John and our dear deducing detective hiding a very dark secret indeed. NOW EDITED!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I do not own Sherlock BBC and do not make any money off of these works. This is purely fiction used to entertain readers. Sir ACD, Moffat, and Gatiss hold all the credit. Lucky bastards.
> 
> Let me make some terms clear:
> 
> Fae: A person with the ability to wield magic. They specialize in one course, but can perform the others at a basic level.
> 
> Partial: A person who can only wield one kind of magic.
> 
> Dragon: A being with fae abilities/looks who can shapeshift into a dragon at will. Feared by the  
> general population due to their tendency to snack on fae blood. Traditionally located in Asia Minor.
> 
> Types of Magic: Telekinesis (movement of objects), telepathy (communication via minds), and elemental manipulation (self-explanatory.)

John wakes up in a pant. His sheets are covered in sweat, and the wound in his shoulder throbs in pain. To make matters worse, his leg is throwing a fit.  _ Psychosomatic,  _ he thinks, the word floating around in his head. Damn the therapist. Now all he can think about was his leg when the real pain is located in his shoulder.

 

The fae sighs and lays back down in his bed, surveying his room. It isn’t much, but then what could one expect from an army pension? After being discharged from the RAMC, John just went through the motions, putting enough food in his stomach to live, going to his therapist as expected, and suffering from vivid nightmares when sleep overtook him.

 

He hates civilian life.

 

Sometimes he can’t even get up in the morning as his leg protests any movement he makes. Today is one of those days. Groaning, John waves a hand through the air. An apple sitting on his desk floats its way over to the night table, as does his laptop. Briefly, he considers calling his Sig as well and blowing his brains out right then and there, but decides against it. He would probably give his landlord, an elderly man called Henry Craigs, a heart attack if he sees John’s body slumped in his bed.

 

The ex-army doctor grabs his laptop and logs in, opening the browser and staring at the screen.  _ Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson,  _ it reads. It feels like a mockery. What on earth is he supposed to write on here?  _ Woke up because of the damn nightmares again, bedridden because of my psychosomatic leg, and contemplated suicide. Lovely day, really. _

 

The therapist recommended it. It would “help him re-adjust to civilian life” or some crap like that. John really doesn’t give a damn. He misses the adventure, the action, the adrenaline the army had provided. Never did it cross his mind that he would be wounded in action, that he’d have a scar on his shoulder for the rest of his life, that he’d be discharged-  _ what a nice term for “kicked out,”  _ he thought bitterly- and forced to “adjust to civilian life.”

 

He hates civilian life. Even more than the nightmares.

 

His leg settles down. John looks at it, then at the cane in the corner. His mouth sets into a grim line.

 

Task one: go for a walk.

 

XxX

 

_ The woman with the straight silver hair walks into the hotel and is almost immediately stopped by a partial in a waiter’s uniform. He has a small nose, small eyes, and a ridiculously small chin, and the woman with the silver hair wonders if those small eyes could be scooped out with a teaspoon. She figures it would only take a sharp blow to the small chin in order to fell the man to the ground. _

 

_ After all, it did work every time. _

 

_ “Pardon me, miss,” the partial in the uniform says. He had a nasally voice. She hates nasally voices. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t let you in unless you are scheduled for a stay.” _

 

_ There were many things wrong with that statement, the woman with the silver hair notes. The major ones, however, was the fact that he didn’t look very sorry at all and that he had referred to her as “miss.” It was much too prim and proper for her taste. _

 

_ She honestly didn’t have time for prim and proper. _

 

_ “I have an appointment with Mr Tanaka,” she says brusquely. “It wasn’t in my knowledge I would have to orchestrate a stay as well.” _

_ The waiter stands his ground. If they weren’t against each other she might admire his stupid determination. “Rules are rules, miss.” _

 

_ The woman with the silver hair sighs dramatically and says, “Well, isn’t that a shame. I don’t have the means to arrange a stay. I suppose the three billion dollars I was about to invest in your hotels will have to go somewhere else. Ah, well.” She glares coldly at the man. “You win some, you lose some, I suppose.” _

 

_ The partial blanches. She finds she quite enjoys making him shake in his boots, his face cold with fear. “You’re Alondra Mirettie.” His voice trembles. _

 

_ She nods, though that was not her name. “Perhaps if you checked your master’s schedule,” her lips twists into a sneer, “like a good boy, you would know.” If pretending to be Alondra Mirettie funds the bread on her table, then so be it. _

 

_ “I apologize, Ms Mirettie.” Now he really did look sorry. “I’ll direct you to Room 532. Mr Tanaka should be there.” _

 

_ The woman with the silver hair smiles, though her smile lacks any sign of warmth, as the man leads her up an elevator lined with gold panels. She eyes them and wonders just how many people could be fed with those very gold panels. The man’s voice breaks her reverie. _

 

_ “This is your floor, miss. Second door to the right.” _

 

_ She imagines for a moment how satisfying it would be to sew the man’s mouth (the only big thing about him, she reckons) shut before giving him another cold smile and heading towards the door. _

 

_ Room 538 is no special room. It is white-walled, undecorated, and has a simple coffee table in the center and two black chairs beside it. One of those chairs is occupied by a fae in a blue tee and black slacks. He is Japanese and has toned arms- martial arts training, perhaps? _

 

_ The woman with the silver hair smiles inwardly. Martial arts people were  _ fun _. _

 

_ The fae stands, shaking her hand. “Ms Mirettie, a pleasure to meet you. I am Mr Tanaka.” _

 

_ She gives a small nod. “The pleasure, I assure you, is all mine. Now,” she sits down in the second black chair, “I do believe we have something to discuss?” _

 

_ “Is it straight to business then?” Tanaka asks, his mouth curving into a wry smile. The woman with the silver hair offers no return. Tanaka employs a more serious manner. “Very well, then.” _

 

_ “It is under my knowledge you are in need of some extra cash.” _

_ Tanaka nods, and his next words tell her that there are no bugs, no cameras in the room. Good. That makes her job much easier. “For the weapons, yes.” _

 

_ The woman with the silver hair nods. “Of course. Forgive me for prying, but I must ask you- to just who are these weapons going to?” _

 

_ Tanaka smiles. “For our benefactress, there is no prying at all. One Mr Charles Cohen has placed an order on the weaponry, to be sold under the guise of hotel furniture. It’s quite clever, isn’t it, Ms. Mirettie?” _

 

_ “Quite,” the woman with the silver hair says. Quicker than lightning, she draws a knife from her coat pocket and lashes out at Tanaka. Unfortunately, the fae is ready. A hand blocks her descent and flips her over. She goes flying to the floor, and with fear clenching her heart, Tanaka stands over her, knife in hand. A smirk plays on his face. “Oh, miss,” he says. “I’ve met Alondra Mirettie before.” _

 

_ “No you haven’t,” she bites back. _

 

_ Tanaka rolls his eyes. “That’s unimportant. Who sent you?” _

 

_ The woman with the silver hair says nothing. _

 

_ “Now, now, now,” Tanaka says, bending over and pressing the knife to the skin of her forearm. “What you do here determines how you die. I can make it quick, or I can drag it out, skin you alive.” His mouth twists into a grimace. “Give me a name!” _

 

_ Suddenly, the woman with the silver hair is shifting before Tanaka’s eyes. Silver scales ripple down her face, her ears curve upwards, wings sprout from her chest. Horrified, Tanaka steps back as a dragon takes form in the room. _

 

_ Smiling, the dragon with the silver scales turns to him. Tanaka raises the knife. She lunges. _

_ The two dance around each other, Tanaka’s knife gleaming in the light, her bared teeth shiny with venom. She snipes a bite, but he dives to the side just in time and drags a cut in her flanks. The dragon with the silver scales howls in pain. The chairs lift upward and drop on top of her at Tanaka’s will, and the dragon shakes them off. She whirls, opens her great leathery wings, and tackles Tanaka to the ground, biting his neck and killing him. The fae falls limp, blood pooling in the ground. The dragon shifts into her fae form. _

 

_ The woman with the silver hair grabs her coat and stares at Tanaka. She retrieves a packet of kerosene from her pocket and lights the body on fire. Dressing, she starts to walk out to the top floor and runs into an empty room. She has just gotten in when there is a cry from below. Swearing, the woman with the silver hair drags chair over and props it against the door. That should buy her time. She turns to the closet, opens it, and bangs the side wall. It produces a hollow sound. She grins and kicks it open to reveal an escape ladder to the roof. _

 

_ There is a pounding at the door, and the woman with the silver hair winces as she hears someone try to kick it down. She swiftly climbs the ladder just as she hears the tell-tale  _ thud  _ of the door as it collapses to the floor. Heart pumping loudly in her chest, she jumps up, fully aware of the presence right behind her. She runs to the edge of the roof and turns to see the partial from earlier, wielding a revolver, glaring in hatred at her. _

 

_ She blows him a kiss and jumps. Her coat fills out, acting as a pillow, protecting her from the impact of the ground below. Quickly she gets up just in time to see a black sedan pull up to the kerb next to her. The woman with the silver hair opens the door and slides in to see a man in sunglasses and an impeccable suit sitting next to her. She gives him a glare. _

 

_ “You, Mr Moriarty, have a lot to explain,” she says as the car pulls away. _

 

_ “Do I?” he asks innocently. _

 

_ “Yes, first off…” her voice trails off as she sees the gun with the silencer in his lap. Fear and realisation enter her bloodstream. “I heard too much, didn’t I? And now you’re going to kill me for it.” _

 

_ He shrugs. “You got the job done, but a bit too well. It’s nothing personal, sweetie. Just business.” _

 

_ He presses it to her forehead and pulls the trigger. _

 

XxX

 

_ Today is not a very good day to be me,  _ thinks Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade as he enters a conference room full of cameras, reporters, and journalists, each wanting NSY to look ridiculous. Donovan is already there. She looks like she wanted to arrest everyone in the room. She catches his eye, and he winces. He was hoping to make a silent entrance.

 

“DI Lestrade will take questions now,” she says, clear relief in her voice that the scrutinizing glare of the media is off of her- for now, at least. The DI gives her a menacing stare before setting his mouth in a firm line and sitting down at the table. Might as well get comfortable in some way before the media bombards him with questions that would make him seem incompetent and definitely not help him get a raise from his superiors.

 

One reporter approaches him. “Is it true that Mr. Jason Tanaka was indeed killed by a dragon?”

 

Lestrade shakes his head. “As I’m sure Donovan has told you, we are still investigating the crime and we will have results as soon as we can.”

 

The cell phones in the room buzz. Lestrade look down.  _ Wrong!  _ A text reads.

 

Donovan quickly says, “Ignore them.”

 

The reporters, thankfully, don’t seem to think much of it. “But if it was a dragon, will the Commonwealth call a state of emergency?”

 

Lestrade hates questions like these. “I’m sure Parliament is already discussing this right now.”

 

 

“If there is a state of emergency, how will it affect the upcoming Prime Minister elections?” Another reporter calls out.

 

“Again, it’s not even clear if the attack was performed by a dragon or not. We have our best forensics team on the case, and I assure you, this will be settled soon.”

 

The phones ring once again. _Wrong!_ They sing out. Lestrade watches as Donovan’s shoulders square. “Sorry for the interruption. I think we’ll take one more question.”

 

“Is it true that Mrs Lestrade has asked for a divorce?” A journalist, clearly on behalf on some gossipy tabloid, calls out. Lestrade stiffens visibly at the mention of his wife, and Donovan looks at him in sympathy. John wakes up in a pant. His sheets are covered in sweat, and the wound in his shoulder throbs in pain. To make matters worse, his leg is throwing a fit. _Psychosomatic,_ he thinks, the word floating around in his head. Damn the therapist. Now all he can think about was his leg when the real pain is located in his shoulder.

 

The fae sighs and lays back down in his bed, surveying his room. It isn’t much, but then what could one expect from an army pension? After being discharged from the RAMC, John just went through the motions, putting enough food in his stomach to live, going to his therapist as expected, and suffering from vivid nightmares when sleep overtook him.

 

He hates civilian life.

 

Sometimes he can’t even get up in the morning as his leg protests any movement he makes. Today is one of those days. Groaning, John waves a hand through the air. An apple sitting on his desk floats its way over to the night table, as does his laptop. Briefly, he considers calling his Sig as well and blowing his brains out right then and there, but decides against it. He would probably give his landlord, an elderly man called Henry Craigs, a heart attack if he sees John’s body slumped in his bed.

 

The ex-army doctor grabs his laptop and logs in, opening the browser and staring at the screen. _Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson,_ it reads. It feels like a mockery. What on earth is he supposed to write on here? _Woke up because of the damn nightmares again, bedridden because of my psychosomatic leg, and contemplated suicide. Lovely day, really._

 

The therapist recommended it. It would “help him re-adjust to civilian life” or some crap like that. John really doesn’t give a damn. He misses the adventure, the action, the adrenaline the army had provided. Never did it cross his mind that he would be wounded in action, that he’d have a scar on his shoulder for the rest of his life, that he’d be discharged- _what a nice term for “kicked out,”_ he thought bitterly- and forced to “adjust to civilian life.”

 

He hates civilian life. Even more than the nightmares.

 

His leg settles down. John looks at it, then at the cane in the corner. His mouth sets into a grim line.

 

Task one: go for a walk.

 

XxX

 

_The woman with the straight silver hair walks into the hotel and is almost immediately stopped by a partial in a waiter’s uniform. He has a small nose, small eyes, and a ridiculously small chin, and the woman with the silver hair wonders if those small eyes could be scooped out with a teaspoon. She figures it would only take a sharp blow to the small chin in order to fell the man to the ground._

 

_After all, it did work every time._

 

_“Pardon me, miss,” the partial in the uniform says. He had a nasally voice. She hates nasally voices. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t let you in unless you are scheduled for a stay.”_

 

_There were many things wrong with that statement, the woman with the silver hair notes. The major ones, however, was the fact that he didn’t look very sorry at all and that he had referred to her as “miss.” It was much too prim and proper for her taste._

 

_She honestly didn’t have time for prim and proper._

 

_“I have an appointment with Mr Tanaka,” she says brusquely. “It wasn’t in my knowledge I would have to orchestrate a stay as well.”_

_The waiter stands his ground. If they weren’t against each other she might admire his stupid determination. “Rules are rules, miss.”_

 

_The woman with the silver hair sighs dramatically and says, “Well, isn’t that a shame. I don’t have the means to arrange a stay. I suppose the three billion dollars I was about to invest in your hotels will have to go somewhere else. Ah, well.” She glares coldly at the man. “You win some, you lose some, I suppose.”_

 

_The partial blanches. She finds she quite enjoys making him shake in his boots, his face cold with fear. “You’re Alondra Mirettie.” His voice trembles._

 

_She nods, though that was not her name. “Perhaps if you checked your master’s schedule,” her lips twists into a sneer, “like a good boy, you would know.” If pretending to be Alondra Mirettie funds the bread on her table, then so be it._

 

_“I apologize, Ms Mirettie.” Now he really did look sorry. “I’ll direct you to Room 532. Mr Tanaka should be there.”_

 

_The woman with the silver hair smiles, though her smile lacks any sign of warmth, as the man leads her up an elevator lined with gold panels. She eyes them and wonders just how many people could be fed with those very gold panels. The man’s voice breaks her reverie._

 

_“This is your floor, miss. Second door to the right.”_

 

_She imagines for a moment how satisfying it would be to sew the man’s mouth (the only big thing about him, she reckons) shut before giving him another cold smile and heading towards the door._

 

_Room 538 is no special room. It is white-walled, undecorated, and has a simple coffee table in the center and two black chairs beside it. One of those chairs is occupied by a fae in a blue tee and black slacks. He is Japanese and has toned arms- martial arts training, perhaps?_

 

 _The woman with the silver hair smiles inwardly. Martial arts people were_ fun _._

 

_The fae stands, shaking her hand. “Ms Mirettie, a pleasure to meet you. I am Mr Tanaka.”_

 

_She gives a small nod. “The pleasure, I assure you, is all mine. Now,” she sits down in the second black chair, “I do believe we have something to discuss?”_

 

_“Is it straight to business then?” Tanaka asks, his mouth curving into a wry smile. The woman with the silver hair offers no return. Tanaka employs a more serious manner. “Very well, then.”_

 

_“It is under my knowledge you are in need of some extra cash.”_

_Tanaka nods, and his next words tell her that there are no bugs, no cameras in the room. Good. That makes her job much easier. “For the weapons, yes.”_

 

_The woman with the silver hair nods. “Of course. Forgive me for prying, but I must ask you- to just who are these weapons going to?”_

 

_Tanaka smiles. “For our benefactress, there is no prying at all. One Mr Charles Cohen has placed an order on the weaponry, to be sold under the guise of hotel furniture. It’s quite clever, isn’t it, Ms. Mirettie?”_

 

_“Quite,” the woman with the silver hair says. Quicker than lightning, she draws a knife from her coat pocket and lashes out at Tanaka. Unfortunately, the fae is ready. A hand blocks her descent and flips her over. She goes flying to the floor, and with fear clenching her heart, Tanaka stands over her, knife in hand. A smirk plays on his face. “Oh, miss,” he says. “I’ve met Alondra Mirettie before.”_

 

_“No you haven’t,” she bites back._

 

_Tanaka rolls his eyes. “That’s unimportant. Who sent you?”_

 

_The woman with the silver hair says nothing._

 

_“Now, now, now,” Tanaka says, bending over and pressing the knife to the skin of her forearm. “What you do here determines how you die. I can make it quick, or I can drag it out, skin you alive.” His mouth twists into a grimace. “Give me a name!”_

 

_Suddenly, the woman with the silver hair is shifting before Tanaka’s eyes. Silver scales ripple down her face, her ears curve upwards, wings sprout from her chest. Horrified, Tanaka steps back as a dragon takes form in the room._

 

_Smiling, the dragon with the silver scales turns to him. Tanaka raises the knife. She lunges._

_The two dance around each other, Tanaka’s knife gleaming in the light, her bared teeth shiny with venom. She snipes a bite, but he dives to the side just in time and drags a cut in her flanks. The dragon with the silver scales howls in pain. The chairs lift upward and drop on top of her at Tanaka’s will, and the dragon shakes them off. She whirls, opens her great leathery wings, and tackles Tanaka to the ground, biting his neck and killing him. The fae falls limp, blood pooling in the ground. The dragon shifts into her fae form._

 

_The woman with the silver hair grabs her coat and stares at Tanaka. She retrieves a packet of kerosene from her pocket and lights the body on fire. Dressing, she starts to walk out to the top floor and runs into an empty room. She has just gotten in when there is a cry from below. Swearing, the woman with the silver hair drags chair over and props it against the door. That should buy her time. She turns to the closet, opens it, and bangs the side wall. It produces a hollow sound. She grins and kicks it open to reveal an escape ladder to the roof._

 

 _There is a pounding at the door, and the woman with the silver hair winces as she hears someone try to kick it down. She swiftly climbs the ladder just as she hears the tell-tale_ thud _of the door as it collapses to the floor. Heart pumping loudly in her chest, she jumps up, fully aware of the presence right behind her. She runs to the edge of the roof and turns to see the partial from earlier, wielding a revolver, glaring in hatred at her._

 

_She blows him a kiss and jumps. Her coat fills out, acting as a pillow, protecting her from the impact of the ground below. Quickly she gets up just in time to see a black sedan pull up to the kerb next to her. The woman with the silver hair opens the door and slides in to see a man in sunglasses and an impeccable suit sitting next to her. She gives him a glare._

 

_“You, Mr Moriarty, have a lot to explain,” she says as the car pulls away._

 

_“Do I?” he asks innocently._

 

_“Yes, first off…” her voice trails off as she sees the gun with the silencer in his lap. Fear and realisation enter her bloodstream. “I heard too much, didn’t I? And now you’re going to kill me for it.”_

 

_He shrugs. “You got the job done, but a bit too well. It’s nothing personal, sweetie. Just business.”_

 

_He presses it to her forehead and pulls the trigger._

 

XxX

 

 _Today is not a very good day to be me,_ thinks Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade as he enters a conference room full of cameras, reporters, and journalists, each wanting NSY to look ridiculous. Donovan is already there. She looks like she wanted to arrest everyone in the room. She catches his eye, and he winces. He was hoping to make a silent entrance.

 

“DI Lestrade will take questions now,” she says, clear relief in her voice that the scrutinizing glare of the media is off of her- for now, at least. The DI gives her a menacing stare before setting his mouth in a firm line and sitting down at the table. Might as well get comfortable in some way before the media bombards him with questions that would make him seem incompetent and definitely not help him get a raise from his superiors.

 

One reporter approaches him. “Is it true that Mr. Jason Tanaka was indeed killed by a dragon?”

 

Lestrade shakes his head. “As I’m sure Donovan has told you, we are still investigating the crime and we will have results as soon as we can.”

 

The cell phones in the room buzz. Lestrade look down. _Wrong!_ A text reads.

 

Donovan quickly says, “Ignore them.”

 

The reporters, thankfully, don’t seem to think much of it. “But if it was a dragon, will the Commonwealth call a state of emergency?”

 

Lestrade hates questions like these. “I’m sure Parliament is already discussing this right now.”

“Okay, okay, everybody out! NSY needs to solve a case. Come on, get out!”

 

The DI and Sergeant practically run out of the room. Donovan still eyes the silver-haired fae with pity, but Lestrade hopes she knows better than to push the subject. Instead, she tackles the other, tad more pressing matter. “You’re going after him, aren’t you?”

 

Lestrade shrugs helplessly. “He’s the best chance we’ve got.”

 

Donovan growls. “That Sherlock Holmes is going to be the death of all of us one day, Lestrade. I don’t trust him.”

 

The DI sighs. “That doesn’t take away from the fact that we can’t solve this case without him.”

 

The woman gives no response. Lestrade doesn’t expect one.

 

XxX

 

It is a beautiful day, it really is. The sun is shining for once in foggy London, birds chirp from green treetops, and the wind sends a light breeze that sweeps John’s greying blond hair. He loves this weather.

 

His pronounced limp makes it difficult to walk, but the use of the cane- army-issued, as if he needs another reminder of what he once had been- helps him a bit. John is enjoying his walk when he hears a call of his name. “John Watson!”

 

John turns with difficulty to face someone with a pudgy figure. The face looks vaguely familiar. A name comes to him: Mike Stamford, a telepathy-partial who studied with him at Bart’s. “Mike!” he calls back, forced cheer in his voice.

 

Mike beckons him to come sit, and they reminisce about times at Bart’s. Mike himself now teaches there, and he asks how John was holding up. John tells him he wants a flat in London, but there was no way he could afford it with an army pension. “Get a flatmate,” Mike recommends. John laughs harshly. “Who’d want me for a flatmate?”

 

There is an odd light in Mike’s eyes. “Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

 

And just like that, John’s curiosity is piqued.

 

“Who’s the first?”

 

XxX

 

Mike takes him to Bart’s, into one of the labs. There is a man in the room, tall, slender, a mop of dark curls on his head. He wears a long Belstaff coat and a blue scarf. John can’t see his face, but senses that he is a fae. There’s an undertone of something _else_ , but John ignores it.

 

“Mike, can I use your phone?” His voice is a deep baritone, and it’s instantly on John’s list of favourite sounds.

 

“What’s wrong with the landline?” Mike asks.

 

The man sounds annoyed. “I prefer to text.”

 

Mike shrugs his shoulders. “Sorry. I left it in my coat.”

 

John, sensing an opportunity, reaches into his pocket. “Here. Use mine.”

 

Multicoloured eyes, cheekbones so sharp John could probably cut himself on them, and cupid’s bow lips turn to stare at John. He looks like he’s been cut from a tapestry of aristocrats. He seems surprised to have seen John speak. “Oh. Thank you.”

 

He retrieves the phone and types something into it. Suddenly, John hears his voice, but his mouth hasn’t moved. Bewildered, John realises the man has used telepathy. _Afghanistan or Iraq?_ He asks.

 

John furrows his eyebrows. _Sorry?_

 

Nearby, Mike smiles. John remembers he is a telepathy-partial, privy to the conversation.

 

The voice is back. _Which was it- Afghanistan or Iraq?_

 

John looks over at Mike, his entire stance saying _What the bloody hell?_ Mike’s smile only grows. John clears his throat and responds. _Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?_

 

He never gets an answer. A young woman, mousy-looking with brown hair, enters the room with a cup of coffee. She’s an elemental-manipulation-partial. The man takes the coffee. “Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you.” John knows he’s only speaking aloud because she isn’t telepathic. “What happened to the lipstick?”

 

Molly smiles awkwardly. “Wasn’t working for me.”

 

The man raises an eyebrow. “Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth’s too small now.”

 

Molly seems to take a bit to register this, replies with a meek “Okay” and practically flees the room.

As soon as she’s gone, the voice is back. _How do you feel about the violin?_

 

And John is completely thrown off-guard again. Mikes is still damn smiling, the smug bastard. _I’m sorry, what?_

 

 _I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end._ He looks upward at John, those eyes boring into his own. John feels scrutinized. _Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other._ He smiles patronizingly.

 

For John, it clicks. _Oh… you told him about me, Mike?_ He looks at him.

 

Mike shakes his head. _Not a word._

 

_Then who said anything about flatmates?_

 

The man stares back at his coffee, then John. _I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap._

 

John has no idea what he is getting into. _How did you know about Afghanistan?_

 

Again, there is no answer. The man wraps his scarf up, preparing to leave. _Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o’ clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary._

 

John stops him. He is confused, bewildered, and utterly blindsided. _Is that it?_

 

 _Is that what?_ Is the answer.

 

_We’ve only just met and we’re going to go and look at a flat?_

 

The man smirks. _Problem?_

 

Disbelieving, John cocks his head. _We don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your name._

 

The man steps closer, and again John feels scrutinized. It’s a very odd feeling. Then the man speaks again, his voice rapid. _I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalidated home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him- quite possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic- quite correctly, I’m afraid._ There’s a smug smile that mirrors the one Mike’s currently wearing. John finds himself having a vendetta against smug smiles. _That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?_

 

Before he closes the door, he pops his head back in. _The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street._ He winks, then looks at Mike. _Afternoon._ Mike waves a finger goodbye, the door slams shut and John feels glued to his spot.

 

_What the bloody hell did I just get myself into._

 

John looks pointedly at Mike. The man just smiles.

 

“Yeah, he’s always like that.”

  
And so John met the enigma known as Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments if you're feeling nice!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Sherlock and am only playing around with characters not of my own making. So please, Moftiss. Don’t sue.

Sadly, John admits to himself once he steps into 221 B, the flat is a mess.

 

Clutter, unopened boxes, and a Union Jack pillow sit on various surfaces, including a comfy-looking red armchair that John unconsciously claims as his; dust surrounds and clouds the room, pointed out by the streams of sunlight coming from cobwebbed curtains; an entire chemistry set lies on the table instead of food; and is that a skull on the mantle?

 

A closer look proves him correct. It’s a childish thing, but John finds himself wanting to smile back at the eternally-grinning skull.

 

Despite the obvious chaos, it’s still a much nicer flat than the two-room John calls home. He can clean up the mess, even if it might take a bit with his damned leg, and perhaps he can get Sherlock to help.

 

Oh, and then there’s Sherlock. The man is staring at him attentively, clearly gauging John’s reaction. He quirks his mouth into a small smile and says, “I’ve moved in a bit,” the same second John says “Just as soon as we clean up the mess.”

 

Sherlock looks mildly embarrassed and starts rearranging his things, and John feels bad for putting him in the awkward position. At least they’ve gone past the telepathic communication, though. John hadn’t done that since Afghanistan, and he could do without the memories telepathy brought. As if on cue, his leg flares in pain, and he shifts his weight to rest on the other. He looks apologetically at Sherlock. “I mean, it’s, never mind,” he sighs. “It’s fine.”

 

The door behind them opens and an elderly telekinesis-partial, late sixties at John’s guess, steps into the room. “Hello,” she chirps. “You must be John.”

 

John waves a hand awkwardly. “Hello.”

 

The woman doesn’t even seem to register his statement, only continues rambling on. “Oh, Sherlock Holmes, is that a skull on the mantle?”

 

Sherlock turns around and smiles patronizingly. “Why, yes, Mrs Hudson. This is an old friend.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Friend, you said?”

 

“Well, I have to tell my deductions to someone competent, don’t I? James Reynolds, despite having been rather brutally castrated and murdered by his jealous ex-wife a number of years ago- I solved his murder, by the way- makes a suitable listener. Mainly because he doesn’t bore me with tangents on trivial things.”

 

John stares at the skull. Suddenly he can picture Sherlock ranting at it. It’s an odd sight, really.

Mrs Hudson clucks disapprovingly. “It’s not decent to keep human remains on a mantle, Sherlock.”

 

The man only picks up an expensive-looking violin off of the black armchair across the red one and begins to screech out tunes. They hurt John’s ears. “Decency is useless,” he snipes. “Now, why don’t you go make yourself useful and fetch me some tea?” He turns away to face the window, back straighter than a ruler.

 

“Sherlock, I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper,” Mrs Hudson protests feebly before she exits, presumably to make tea. As she leaves John shouts down the stairs, “I’d like a cuppa too, if you will!”

 

“Not your housekeeper!” she yells back.

 

Suddenly Sherlock stops torturing the violin. “Aha!” he exclaims, jumping up with clear enthusiasm and summoning a blue scarf from the mantle with a flick of his wrist. It wraps around his neck neatly. His next words deprive John of the ability to breathe properly.

 

“The murder yesterday, Mrs Hudson, has stumped NSY! Oh, finally, something has turned up. Those imbeciles can’t figure it out, so here they are!”

 

John looks out the window. A police car, lights flashing, sits by the kerb.

 

“A murder?” he finds himself asking.

 

Sherlock grins. John wants to swallow his words back. “Yes, John, a murder- I’m sure you’ve heard about the one that occurred yesterday. There must be something puzzling about it- those fools at the Yard can’t solve it, so they’ve come to fetch me, as usual. The criminals of London have finally gotten something right!”

 

John blinks, thinks about asking  _ why the bloody hell Sherlock is so excited about a sodding murder _ , opens his mouth to ask, becomes fearful of the answer, and promptly closes it.

Sherlock looks at him, and again John feels the scrutinizing gaze from the day before come back to play, but before Sherlock can comment a haggard-looking, silver-haired fae bursts into the room. He looks absolutely exhausted. On his coat is a badge- DI LESTRADE, it reads.

 

So this is the “fool” from the Yard, John notes.

 

“Sherlock, you’ve got to come quick,” he says. “We’ve got no clue-”

 

Sherlock studies the man like one would a child. “No sleep in four days, just found out your father was diagnosed with ulcers, the press has been on the whole Yard- especially you- to solve this particular case, Donovan and the media have found out about your cheating wife and it makes you rather uncomfortable, considering she’s three months along with her lover’s child, you’ve finally taken the ring off, and you’re currently nursing a light hangover from drowning your sorrows in drink last night. You had five glasses of whiskey, by the way, not six.”

 

Lestrade looks at him incredulously, but he quickly shakes it off. John’s dazed, though.

“Look, you can spill my life story later. I just need to know whether you’ll come or not.”

 

“Witnesses?”

 

“None- murder occurred during a meeting only his PA knew about.”

 

Sherlock studies him. “Who’s on forensics?”

 

Lestrade winces, and that appears to be all that Sherlock needs to know. He sneers. “It’s that incompetent fool Anderson, isn’t it?”

 

The DI shrugs. “Sorry, mate.”

 

“Lestrade, you know Anderson doesn’t work with me!” Sherlock complains.

 

John frowns. “Anderson?”

 

Sherlock makes a sound of dismay. “One of the most useless and stupid people you will ever meet. And I was hoping that humanity had standards.”

 

Lestrade looks at John, and John realizes the silver-haired fae is only now just noticing his presence, so focussed was he on getting Sherlock. “Oh, hello. Detective Inspector Lestrade, NSY.” He holds out his hand.

 

John smiles, shifts his cane in order to shake the man’s open palm. “John Watson,” he says.

Sherlock huffs impatiently. “Now that we’re done with unnecessary and quite frankly time-wasting greetings, can we get to the fact that Anderson is an arrogant moron who would rather die than work with me?”

 

“Sherlock, we really need your help. The press is just eating us up the longer we take.”

 

The black curls slump, as do Sherlock’s shoulders, and John has a visual of a much smaller version of Sherlock pouting. It doesn’t look much unlike the scene in front of him. “Fine,” Sherlock says, and John has to hold back laughter as he sees a grown man pout.

 

Lestrade breathes a sigh of relief, and John can practically feel the gratitude pouring from the man. The second he’s gone, though, Sherlock’s sulkiness disappears.

 

“A case!” he shouts, excitement radiating off of him in waves. With a flick of a slender wrist the long Belstaff coat hanging by the door comes to Sherlock’s side, and he puts it on with a flourish. “Mrs. Hudson, did you hear? A case! A tricky murder that has stumped the Yard! Crime is finally deciding to use their heads.”

 

“Don’t get so happy about it, Sherlock- it’s not decent,” Mrs. Hudson calls back.

 

But Sherlock either doesn’t hear her or ignores it, because he goes out the door with a great swish of that long coat and is gone, a cheeky smile on his face. John only shakes his head in disbelief and heads over to the red armchair, settling down in it and stretching his leg out to a comfortable position. Mrs Hudson comes back in. “Tea’s ready, John.”

 

John nods and smiles as she sets the cup on the table. “Thanks. Got any biscuits?”

 

The telepathic-partial laughs. “Oh, John. I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper.”

 

John can’t help but grin fondly as she leaves, knowing full well she would come back with a platter full of biscuits. He picks up the paper from the table and starts flipping through the wanted section. 

“I’ve got to find a job,” he mutters to himself.

 

“You’re an ex-army doctor,” a rich baritone says from the door. John immediately turns around, but it’s a bit too quickly- pain flares in his damned leg- and sees Sherlock standing, leaning his lanky frame against the door. John clears his throat. “Yes, I am.”

 

“A good doctor?”

 

Now, John isn’t prideful about his line of work, and he has known many doctors better than he, but he genuinely isn’t lying when he nods and says, “Very good.”

 

Sherlock steps into the room, his gaze still fixed on John. “Seen a lot of blood, violence, death.”

 

Somehow, John has the feeling what he says now is going to affect him for possibly the rest of his life. He stands up with the help of his cane. “I’ve seen plenty.”

 

The black-haired fae cocks his head slightly to the side. “Enough for a lifetime.”

 

John remains stoic, years of military training helping him keep his back ramrod straight, despite major protesting in his bad leg. “Yes, maybe more.”

 

His flatmate grins, a wild, dangerous grin, and John realizes he is dealing with a mad man. An intelligent, genius, talented mad man, but a mad man nonetheless.

 

“Would you like to see some more?” Sherlock asks.

 

And John finds himself looking upwards (damn Sherlock for being so bloody tall) as a grin not unlike Sherlock’s creeps its way up his face, and vaguely he wonders if Sherlock is really the only mad man in the room.

 

“Oh God yes.”

 

XxX

 

Sherlock, John finds out, is incredibly adept at hailing cabs. It’s really quite ridiculous. John is sure the man would win an award if there was one.

 

“So what, exactly, do you do?” he asks when they get in the cab.

 

“My occupation is a consulting detective,” Sherlock replies, and John detects a not-very-subtle hint of pride in his voice.

 

“Consulting detective? Never heard of it.”

 

“That’s because I’m the only one in the world,” Sherlock explains. “I invented the job.”

John is still utterly confused. “I don’t understand.”

 

“I’m the person the Yard goes to when their incompetent officers fail to provide a solution to a case. They consult me.”

 

“So like a private detective?”

 

Sherlock gives him a dirty look. “Most private detectives are con men who give awfully meager services for a ridiculously high price.”

 

John really can’t help the smile forcing its way onto his face. “And you’re the real thing?”

 

The other fae looks incredibly offended. “Of course.”

 

“Prove it, then.”

 

There’s a glint that promises more than he asked for gleaming proudly in Sherlock’s eyes, and John mentally braces himself for the storm.

 

“I know you’re military from your haircut and the way you hold yourself, but your connection to Stamford says trained at Barts, so army doctor. Quite the contradicted occupation, I must say. Your face is tanned but not above the wrists, so you’ve been abroad but not on holiday, suggesting an alternate reason. Your limp is bad when you walk but when you stand you don’t sit on a chair, meaning you’ve at least partly forgotten about it. Psychosomatic, then, meaning the original circumstances of your injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, combined with a suntan- discharged from service in Afghanistan or Iraq.”

 

John is stunned, but there’s a few more things that need answering. “Therapist. You said I had a therapist. How?”

 

Sherlock scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You’re a war hero with a psychosomatic leg. Of course you’ve got a therapist. And then there’s your brother.”

 

John frowns but doesn’t correct him. Sherlock holds out his hand. “Your phone.” John raises an eyebrow but gives him no protest, sliding his palm into his jeans pocket and retrieving his phone, handing it over. Sherlock eyes it. “This is no cheap phone, and you’re living on an army pension, so why waste money on this? It’s a gift, then. Father? No, this is a young man’s gadget. Mother? No, she’d be more likely to give you a sentimental gift.  _ Women.  _ I’d say brother or cousin, but it’s not your cousin because then you’d be staying with them, so no extended family. Brother’s name, Harry Watson, giving this rather expensive phone to his sibling. And who’s Clara? Three kisses scream romantic attachment, and the fact that this is a luxury item hints at wife, not girlfriend. Why give it away? This can’t be more than six months old.”

 

John is vaguely aware that his jaw has fallen open.

 

“Marriage in trouble, then, and he left her, or else he’d have kept it due to sentiment. Giving it to you says ‘stay in touch’; but you haven’t gone to him for help, even though it’s clear you need it. Why? Maybe you liked his wife, or maybe it’s the drinking that drives you away.”

 

Somehow John regains some control over himself. “Drinking, how can you possibly know about the drinking?”

 

Grinning, Sherlock points to the charger porthole. “Scratches. His hands were shaking when he plugged it in at night. Never see a sober man’s with them, never see a drunk’s without.”

 

For a moment, John just stares, dazed. Sherlock looks out the window, and John can practically feel the victory leaking out of his posture. “Brilliant,” he says, in awe.

 

Sherlock doesn’t turn around, but John sees his reflection in the window. He seems surprised. 

 

“You think so?”

 

John grins. “Yes, of course! That was amazing. Quite extraordinary.”

 

“That’s not what people normally say.”

 

John frowns. “Well, what do people normally say?”

 

“Piss off.”

 

They both turn to look at each other at the same time, manage to hold their composure for about a span of half a second, and burst into laughter. The cabbie barks at them to shut the hell up, he’s got a massive headache, but honestly, John can care less.

 

XxX

 

_ “You  _ what _?” Sammy shrieks, panic clear in his tone. He tries and fails to control himself, cursing silently as his shakiness and rapidly darting eyes betray the fact that he is utterly petrified. _

 

_ “I believe you heard me loud and clear, Sammy,” his employer states all too coolly to be sane. Then again, as if Sammy is just the picture of sanity. What sane person would willingly take money to kill others? Other human beings? _

 

_ But Sammy doesn’t think of that often, because he went down that road before and didn’t particularly like what he saw in himself; he shut it up and barred it, never to be walked again. And besides, now’s definitely not the time to have a conscience crisis about his “occupation.” _

 

_ “Sir-” _

 

_ “No complaints, Sammy. You can target anyone- I don’t care if you decide to finish off the bloody Queen- you just have to get it done in draconian form. I know what you are, Sammy. I’ve known for a long time.” _

 

_ “I’ve guarded that secret for years!” Sammy whines, but he knows full well there are no secrets kept from his employer. He’s just that good. “I can’t do it!” _

 

_ “You will.” Is his employer’s only reply. _

 

_ “And you killed Maybel for completing her task in draconian form. How do I know you won’t kill me like you did to her? Why this sudden interest?” Sammy demands. He knows it’s dangerous, but sometimes his employer likes them to be feisty. He gets a kick out of it, Sammy can tell. _

 

_ “I’ve changed my mind,” his employer says casually, like he’s just changed his mind over what tie to wear. “I quite like having Scotland Yard run around when a dragon has done the murder.” He grins maniacally, and Sammy feels a shiver of fear run down his spine. He ignores it. Years of practice have made him immune to the spikes of terror Sammy gets whenever he’s with his employer. _

 

_ “And besides,” said employer continues, “I’ve found someone I know long ago, and I especially want to see him dance.” _

 

_ Sammy nods.  “And false clues? Controversial evidence? Full fatality?” He’s resigned to his fate now. _

 

_ His employer shakes his head. “Make it obvious it was a dragon. Make him  _ dance _.” _

 

XxX

 

When they go inside the hotel, a man is sitting on a chair in the otherwise empty lobby, sobbing. Sherlock doesn’t look surprised. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. You’re Jason Tanaka’s PA?”

 

The man nods. He looks frightened.

 

“Which floor?”

 

He tells them. They take the elevator. John’s leg breathes in gratitude for elevators.

 

As soon as it opens, John follows Sherlock into a hotel room. It would have been a rather nice hotel room, had you disregarded the charred and bleeding corpse of the manager, Jason Tanaka, lying in the middle of the room. Lestrade’s already there, as is what seems to be a full forensics unit headed by a sour-looking elemental-manipulation-partial and a curly-haired fae who glares menacingly at Sherlock the moment the two of them step into the room. The second she sees John, however, the glare is redirected. “Ah, who’s this?”

 

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively before John can even open his mouth. “John Watson, Sergeant Donovan. John’s my assistant.”

 

Donovan looks like she is about to complain, but then Lestrade steps in. “Just let him in.”

 

Chastised, she backs down. Sherlock walks to the center of the room and bends over the corpse. “Why kill Tanaka?” he wonders aloud. “Older man, unmarried but currently in a relationship with someone- Anderson, you could learn from him!”

 

The sour-looking man turns around, and John can see how this man could be called an “incompetent fool”. “What, freak?”

 

John bristles uncomfortably at the name, but no one addresses the insult. He makes it a priority to do so if it happens again. Instead, Sherlock replies, “Oh, you know, the whole idea of having an open relationship, and not cheating on your wife with a coworker daily. There is a decent thing to do called divorce, but I guess your wife’s incredibly successful living and therefore paycheck as a lawyer matters more to you than your extra-marital relationship with another.” He turns to look at Donovan. “Isn’t that right, Donovan?”

 

John has never seen anyone verbally ripped to shreds, and now he’s seen two. Anderson’s entire face scruples together in clear fury, his eyes darkening in hatred at Sherlock. Donovan has gone bright red, but her gaze is steelier than titanium. If looks could kill, Sherlock would be in the eighth layer of hell.

 

Lestrade just rolls his eyes. “Anderson, Donovan, out. Sherlock, continue.”

 

The two look incredulous, but it’s clear that Sherlock’s the favourite here. Mumbling foul words under their breath and not-so-under-their-breath, they leave. John gives a sigh of relief. 

 

Sherlock turns back to the body. “The silver necklace with the heart shape would clearly only be given by someone young, naïve, and ridiculously feminine, so he would have been dating a young woman. The wallet with a hundred pounds lying carelessly in it says three things: one, he was incredibly wealthy; two, this was not a mugging; and three, his girlfriend was a gold digger. But how does a hotel manager get this much money? And why didn’t the killer take the money? Lestrade, what’s his record?”

 

Lestrade gives a shrug. “So clean I was surprised.”

 

Instead of being deterred, Sherlock is only spurred on. He laughs aloud, his countenance bright as ever. “Too clean, Lestrade. Ah, of course!”

 

“What?” John and Lestrade ask at the same time. They look at each other oddly for a moment, then tune their attention back to the detective.

 

“His record is clean, you said. Much too clean. I’m sure that he was a law-abiding citizen of the Commonwealth, but what law-abiding citizen would have a secret meeting only his PA was privy to which ultimately ended with his death? And speaking of the PA, what man would look so obviously troubled when NSY came in to solve the death of his employer, whom no doubt he was at least friendly with, unless he had something to hide? The poor PA hasn’t slept well since the murder, his nails have been shorn off due to constant biting, he’s lost a good amount of weight as is displayed by how loose his clothes fit him, and is displaying clear signs of nervousness. Then there was the way he kept stroking his trousers’ pocket, as if there was something in there that comforted him by its presence and needed to be protected. Gift? No, he wouldn’t put a thing of such sentimentality in his pocket. Just a tic? Don’t think so- there was a clear bulge in there. I’m thinking something, maybe a hard drive, that contained Tanaka’s more illicit activities- the ones that got him killed. He’s got a clean record because he’s wealthy enough to have paid off at least some of the force.” Sherlock glares meaningfully at Lestrade. “Interrogate the PA, and please, hire better officers. They’re already stupid, they don’t need to be bought as well.”

 

John is staring. He’s aware he’s staring. He doesn’t care he’s staring. “Amazing.”

 

Sherlock smiles. John can tell it’s a genuine smile. He gets the feeling those are rare.

 

The DI simply groans. “I swear to God, Sherlock, if you’re making this up-”

 

Sherlock interrupts him. “Am I ever wrong, Lestrade?”

 

When Lestrade stays silent, John assumes the answer is a no. He’s still completely fascinated. “That was brilliant.”

 

The smile turns into an arrogant smirk, and Sherlock gives him a way too smug glance. “You are aware that your vocalisations are spoken aloud, yes?”

 

John chooses not to reply.

 

Lestrade only clears his throat. “We’ve got no suspects, but the PA said Tanaka met with one Alondra Mirettie. Unfortunately, the PA may not be exactly trustworthy, as you’ve made it clear, and besides, Alondra Mirettie was in Florida on holiday. She’s got at least a dozen witnesses other than her own family. Imposter, then?”

 

Sherlock nods. “Finally, you’ve used that little brain of yours. But why go through the trouble of posing as someone else?” He looks back at the body. “John, you’re a doctor, and I trust your opinion more than that squad of idiots NSY calls forensics. Cause of death?”

 

John looks at Lestrade for permission. The silver-haired fae sighs but shrugs. John bends over the body, carefully positioning his cane, and peers. Burns spread out across the back, but they end once the torso begins. Blood still leaks sluggishly from a deep wound in the neck. John inspects it. It looks a lot like a knife wound, and John would have easily fallen for that mistake had he not treated plenty of knife wounds in Afghanistan. No, the angle is all wrong, and when John gently turns the body to its side he gasps aloud.

 

“Bloody hell,” he whispers.

 

Sherlock frowns. “What?”

 

John swallows, takes a quick inhale, and gets back up. His leg is strangely devoid of pain. “Bite marks,” he says grimly. “All around.”

 

Lestrade’s voice is full of confusion and a bit of panic. “Bite marks? So it’s a cannibal now? How?”

He never gets answered, as that exact moment a young telekinesis-partial comes through the door. She looks troubled. “Sir, the results are back.”

 

“And, Simmons?”

 

Simmons gulps and waves an unsteady hand. Two test tubes come to her side. They’re both filled with a metallic liquid, almost like-

 

“They tested positive, both, for dragon blood.”

 

There’s just dead silence for five long seconds. Even Sherlock is deprived of words. John thinks he goes pale for a second, but attributes it to his hypersensitive imagination.

 

_ Dragon blood. _

 

“Are you sure?” Lestrade asks shakily.

 

Sherlock laughs mockingly. “Dragon blood!” he crows, clearly mocking of it. “My, my, Lestrade, I knew your forensics unit was bad, but this? The press will eat this up!”

 

Lestrade just looks worried, and John can feel the anxiety growing in his own chest. Dragons are no joke. John’s lost a couple of mates to them while they were in Afghanistan, where the creatures were most prominent. Everyone had to be screened to make sure they weren’t just dragons hiding as fae.

 

“Simmons, do a retest.” Lestrade orders.

 

“No, I’ll do it,” Sherlock says, and with a flick of his fingers the test tubes come into his palm. He pockets them into his coat. Lestrade makes a sound of protest, but at Sherlock’s sharp glare he slumps in defeat. John knows it’s probably not the first time. “Fine. You are aware this is highly illegal?”

 

Sherlock only huffs. John’s awed at how much he acts like a child. “Yes, I’m aware.”

 

“Just get it back in a week, ok? And don’t even think of tampering with it.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock replies. “Come along, John. Don’t forget to question the PA!”

And the man sweeps out of the room, coat swishing dramatically, leaving John no choice but to follow. He sighs exasperatedly, nods a farewell to Lestrade, rebalances his cane and limps out.

 

“You got one thing wrong, by the way,” John says when the both of them are outside. “About me, I mean.”

 

Sherlock frowns, and John can almost hear the gears in that brilliant mind begin to turn as he reviews their earlier conversation and searching for whatever could possibly be wrong. “What?”

 

John grins. He’s outwitted the genius. “Harry is short for Harriet.”

 

“Sister!” Sherlock cries out, mouth twisting in frustration. “There’s always something.”

 

“You did a pretty good job other than that, though,” John says. “The entire rest of it was basically spot on. It was kind of creepy, actually.”

 

“I am a detective, John.”

 

John laughs. “I guess. Anyways, what’s in those test tubes, if it’s not dragon blood?”

 

The detective smiles dangerously and holds up a hand, hailing a cab. As it pulls up, he turns to John and says, “That’s exactly why I took them.”

 

“Why?” John asks. He asks despite fearing the answer.

 

“Because they  _ are  _ dragon blood, and I have to make sure NSY doesn’t know that.”

 

XxX

 

The British Government (don’t call him that to his face, though- he’ll deny it till the day he dies) stares into a screen displaying two men- one tall with dark curls, one short with equally short blond hair- and says, “So Sherlock Holmes had somehow landed himself a flatmate and assistant. Schedule an appointment. If there’s no time, make some.”

 

His PA, a twenty-something telepathy-partial, scribbles down his words. “The usual way?” she asks.

 

He nods, not taking his eyes off of the screen once. “Dr John H Watson,” he muses aloud but to no one in particular. His PA doesn’t respond. She’s used to his repeating things out loud. “Just who are  _ you _ ?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't own this but boy do I wish on every star I did. Moffat and Gatiss and BBC and Sir ACD hold all rights. Not me. *cries*

"It's dragon blood," John repeats numbly for the tenth time since he and Sherlock entered 221 B.

 

For the tenth time, Sherlock rolls his eyes in clear exasperation and says, "Yes, John, it's dragon blood." Currently the detective is peering quite intently into the chemistry set on the kitchen table. The test tubes with the aforementioned blood lies far too innocently next to it, along with a full arsenal of vials, about twenty beakers of all sizes, and science tools. Some of them John has never seen before, but there are a few which John can vaguely recognize from those medical days at Bart's yet can't name for the life of him - or, for that matter, be even remotely arsed to care.

 

John is much more concerned about his mad flatmate, those two suspiciously sparkly test tubes, and, of course, the implications of the words "dragon blood."

 

"Then why'd you say it wasn't dragon blood?" John asks. He is quite aware that there are much bigger questions to be answered - like what the bloody hell are we going to do there's a sodding dragon on the loose in London - but John has the feeling he might really go and have a mental panic attack if he starts getting the answers to those kinds of questions, and he has had far too many of those.

 

Damn Afghanistan.

 

"Because then the whole of the Commonwealth would go into a mass hysteria, like you are right about now, and said dragon would never be caught and dealt with properly due to the public's stupidity and fear to even step outside. London would stop functioning, and the dragon would have the ability to hide in plain sight. It's common sense, John. You have a brain; I beg of you to use it." Sherlock snaps.

 

Grudgingly, and yes, it is grudgingly, because John could really have done without that last comment, John has to admit that the detective makes a decent point. But he does have to defend himself somewhat - he still has his inner Captain Watson, after all. "I'm not going into hysterics, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock doesn't even give him the dignity of looking at John, merely scoffs mockingly in response. "Oh, please. It's a natural biological response that's a result of your evolution. You are fae, and dragons, as it is well known, have a rather nasty tendency to snack on fae blood. Well, they like partials too, but prefer fae, and I think I would be worried if you showed no signs of panic. It's in your biology."

 

John frowns. "Then why aren't you all out of sorts, either?"

 

The fae seems a little taken aback by the question, and inwardly a childish voice whoops in victory at throwing the ever so calm man off his guard, but Sherlock is quick to regain his usual high and mighty self and shrugs. "Come now, John," he chides almost condescendingly. "Surely you must know I have my methods."

 

John leans on his cane and briefly considers smacking Sherlock with it. He wonders if it would do anything to maybe take the detective's ego down a couple of notches or so when a loud hiss resounds throughout the kitchen. John whips his head around back to Sherlock, who is still staring attentively at the test tubes, holding them up to the light to examine them. John stares in abject horror as a red fume comes leaking out of the tubes menacingly. "Sherlock, I swear-"

 

He never finishes. "John, I am 92.7 percent positive that this is not poisonous, flammable, or even vaguely threatening or harmful to either of us, the flat, or the general British public. Why would I let it be? The Yard would be only too happy to pinpoint the whole thing on me and shove me behind bars. I know Anderson's been trying to prove that I'm in on a conspiracy theory for years."

 

John nearly breathes a sigh of relief until he actually computes Sherlock's words. "Wait. 92.7 percent?"

 

Sherlock turns to him and gives a grin. "In the event that this does prove poisonous, flammable, or even vaguely threatening or harmful to either of us, the flat, or the general British public, I shall gladly pay for yours and whomever else's medical bill, whatever sum it may be. In the event that you die, I promise you shall be mourned by me for at most a few hours."

 

John laughs dryly, trying to do something to cover up his nervousness. "Will you? Trust me, I'll be touched."

 

Sherlock just rolls his eyes. "Are you over your irrational yet perfectly explainable fear of dragon blood?"

 

"Well, I suppose, but-"

 

"Good, because I need you to hold this." And the insane man turns around, plonks a vial full of fuming red liquid into John's hand, and runs to his room. "Don't drop it, now!"

 

John's stomach churns at the sight of the blood. He tries to take a deep inhale and exhale it out like his therapist Ella is always trying to get him to do – "It will help," he remembers her saying something like that – but when every instinct inside of you is screaming for you to run run get away NOW it's kind of hard to stay even remotely calm. Every fiber of John's being hates Sherlock for putting him in this predicament. Warily he eyes it, half-prepared for the blood to attack him like it would probably do in some crazed horror movie, but before his imagination can take him down still darker paths the detective comes back, a light blue formula floating at his side. John frowns. "Couldn't you have just summoned it from your room and not made me hold the blood?"

 

"Perhaps," Sherlock mutters.

 

John scowls.

 

With a wave of Sherlock's fingers the Vicious Test Tubes of Blood (oh dear, now John's brain has given them a name) slip out of John's hand and into the air. Sherlock hums a tune off-key idly as he pours the blue formula into the tubes. John's mouth drops. "Sherlock."

 

The fae turns to him. "What?"

 

"It's growling." John says, taking a cautious step back. He is poised to flee. His brain says flee. He really wants to run.

 

Sherlock only looks at the test tubes momentarily. "It tends to do that when an organic compound of different molecular bonds performs osmosis on the cells. I'm not quite sure why, however." He shrugs. "NSY will never know I was the one who tampered with it – or that it was ever tampered with at all. It's settling quite nicely, and within five minutes should closely resemble fae blood but could be mistaken for a dragon's. With forensics' track record, it won't be hard to believe." The detective snaps his head over to John, his piercing eyes holding John there. "We need milk."

 

John, admittedly, is dumbstruck for a moment. "Milk. We need milk? Wait, what do I have to do with milk? Do you need it for this?"

 

The other fae scoffs. "No, John, I need the milk to see if it's a suitable substitute for fetal membrane." He says dryly. Seeing John's frankly horrified expression, he quickly rectifies his statement. "I mean that we are out of milk, and if we mean to make decent tea it's probably best you go get some."

 

"I go get some?" John asks. He's pretty sure that Sherlock doesn't understand the innuendo.

 

"Yes," Sherlock says distractedly, his attention wholly consumed by the hissing (oh, joy, it's fizzing too) of the dragon blood. "Go get milk."

 

Thrown off by Sherlock's callousness, John merely scoffs and pulls on his coat. It's a bit chilly out, and he has to go get milk.

 

Milk was easy to buy. Located in the dairy freezer, 2 percent milk and half price too. Tea was easy to buy. Just stroll down to beverage section past sodas and whiskeys, there it was, a box of thirty Earl Grey teas, no discount though. Tesco's never gives discounts of tea. Probably because it's so in demand. Biscuits were easy to buy. Bread aisle, grab a couple of packs, toss them into his bag, and John was ready to go.

 

Until, of course, he saw the goddamned jam. Right by the bread aisle, as if they knew he was going to go get it.

 

Stacks and stacks of strawberry jam, taunting him from their shelf. John's mouth is already watering. His hand reaches out to grab one, but he snatches it back. "No."

 

The same childish voice protests feverishly with "Why?"

 

Oh, bollocks. Now he's talking to himself in the middle of Tesco's. Ella's going to have a field day with this one.

 

John sighs. Relents. "Ok. Fine. Just the one."

 

Ten jars of strawberry jam and a checkout later, John is walking down to Baker Street. He took the cab to Tesco's as his leg started acting up, but it's fine now and honestly John rather likes walking. It's calming despite the cane, and besides he rarely has that magic hand wave that Sherlock does to summon cabs right away.

 

He is about three blocks from Baker Street when the black sedan pulls up next to John. At first John simply ignores it and keeps walking. However, the sedan simply follows him and eventually John stops. The front door of the sedan opens and a man in a suit climbs out. He proceeds to beckon John over, pulling the back door open for him. "Dr. Watson, if you would please. This does not have to become violent."

 

John looks around. He notices hopelessly there is no one in sight, no one to hear him if he puts up a fight. He has no choice. He straightens his back, clenches the groceries reflexively. He knows he is being abducted, yet he also knows he must go if he wants to figure this out.

  
And so John climbs into the backseat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is is really more of a filler chapter than anything else. Yes, I'm sorry. Yes, it has been far too long since I last wrote. Yes, I left you on a cliffhanger.
> 
> Apologies. Life is hectic.
> 
> However, if you would so kindly leave me comments or kudos as encouragement, that may speed up my writing process….
> 
> Just saying. *grins cheekily* OH, and I saw Captain America. Martin Freeman's in it, by the way. So, yeah. Go watch it. Now.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, just a quickie to get it out of the way. I swear the action will come in soon! I hate finals.

 

Sherlock is aware, very much so, that John and the milk (he needs it for an experiment – no, not John, the milk, of course) should have been back at least five minutes ago. Why they aren’t presents a complete puzzle to him, and naturally, being Sherlock, he has to figure it out.

 

While Sherlock hates getting up to reach for his phone in order to send a text, (and he  _ abhors  _ it when people tell him to fetch things for himself) it appears that desperate times call for desperate measures. His latest experiment involves fresh human spleens, and if they dry out all will go to waste. He needs milk.  _ Now _ .

 

**Come to 221 B at once. – SH**

 

No response.

 

**It’s a matter of emergency, possibly national importance. – SH**

 

Perhaps he is exaggerating slightly, but this experiment could prove the alibi of a government official and if that gets John to hurry a bit faster, he would gladly take the strop John would undoubtedly throw.

 

He waits a little, but there is still nothing from John. A bit of suspicion enters his mind.

**John? – SH**

 

His phone buzzes, and excitedly Sherlock checks the number. However, it’s not from John. Sherlock reads  **Private Number** and curses, quickly reading over the message. Angrily he waves a hand, his Belstaff flying towards his hand at its master’s command and wrapping itself around him as he slams the door open and rushes down the stairs. “Going out, Mrs Hudson!” He yells before running out of 221B Baker Street.

 

His Mind Palace replays the same words over and over again.

 

**Missing the good doctor already? Don’t worry so, Sherlock. He is in good hands. – MH**

 

XxX

 

Across the seat is a pretty telepathic-partial with wavy-ish brown hair. She snatches John’s mobile from his hand once he enters the car, and John shrugs. He figured that would happen eventually.

 

The partial ignores John after that in favor for the BlackBerry in her hand. Perfectly manicured nails with a glossy finish over them click about the device as her fingers fly rapidly over it. John can’t help but compare it to his tech buddies from his days at uni. Even they couldn’t type that fast.

 

“My name is John Watson,” he says, just to say something. He knows he has been abducted, but still, he can’t help but not feel afraid and, in fact, rather bored. Afghanistan has desensitized him to many things (well, excluding loud car horns that sound too much like artillery fire and anything his way too imaginative brain conjures up to torment him in the middle of the night – speaking of which, he should probably tell Sherlock about his nightmares… he doesn’t think the madman would be too pleased about being woken up to screams at three a.m.). He supposes kidnapping is another one of those.

 

She doesn’t even look at him. “Yes, I know.”

 

Something about her tone implies she knows a lot more about John than just his name, things like the time her got drunker than wine and was convinced to try on women’s underwear, or when Harry set his trousers on fire when they were kids (while he was wearing them, by the way) and just memories that John would really rather have kept inside his head and nowhere else.

 

He tries to gather some information. That was Abduction 101 in Afghanistan: learn as much as you can about your captors. “You know, most people would also tell another their name,” he notes lightly.

 

The partial makes a little noise of acknowledgement. “Oh, is that so?”

 

John nods firmly. “I believe so.”

 

“Well then, John Hamish Watson, graduate of Bart’s, certified surgeon, Captain of the 5 th Northumberland Fusiliers, I’m afraid I’m simply not at the position nor trust to provide you with my name. It’s sensitive information, you see,” the woman replies. It’s almost irritating to see that her gaze still hasn’t left the phone. John wonders if she’s reading all his files on there. She probably is. He wonders how she got them. He realises he doesn’t want to know. However, he does want her gaze off the damned phone. He has to surprise her.

 

“Really?” he asks.

 

All the partial gives are another of those incredibly annoying “mmm” sounds and a barely perceptible nod of her head. Briefly John wonders if this woman is a therapist. She would be excellent at it. John would know, after all.

 

“Then what do I call you?” he questions. If John is going to be kidnapped in a state-of-the-art, high class black sedan to a location of which he has absolutely no clue, the least he can do is make some conversation with his abductor (or is she? John has no idea, except the feeling that there is someone higher on the paygrade than her) and hopefully be able to garter some information about his current situation.

 

Finally, the partial looks at him. Now that John sees her face fully, he notices the faded, pink scar that runs from her ear to cheekbone. He doesn’t gasp despite its nastiness – again, one of those things Afghanistan has desensitized him to. It’s not very long, but it looks like it hurt and John wonders what line of work this woman is involved in. It is still red, indicating the wound was deep, with a slight slant to the side, likely caused by a knife.

 

After all, John doesn’t just know about therapists. No, he knows about scars too.

 

The partial is still looking at him. Her dark brown eyes bore into John, as if she is trying to figure him out. John just folds his hands simply over his jean-clad lap as the groceries sit placidly by his feet. If she wants to stare, John thinks, fine. Stare. See if he cares.

 

“Anthea,” she says finally, after a good five minutes of staring. Her eyes turn automatically back to her phone. John can hear the rapid  _ click click _ begin again, a mantra of pressed keys as her fingers continue their manic flight over the device. “You may call me Anthea.”

 

But John is not a Barts graduate, certified surgeon,  _ bloody Captain in the Queen’s bloody army for God’s sake  _ because he is stupid. “That’s not your name.” He states. It’s not a question. It’s a statement. It’s truth.

 

John swears he sees the corner of her mouth turn up ever so slightly into a small smirk. “No, Dr Watson, that is not my real name.” If John hadn’t known any better he’d say her tone was almost apologetic.

 

“Do you know where we’re going, Anthea?” John can’t help but ask.

 

Anthea continues to stare at her Blackberry. “Sorry, Dr Watson, I do, but I’m afraid-”

 

John cuts her off. “Let me take a wild guess here. You’re not at the position nor the trust to do so?”

 

“To put it simply, yes.”

 

The rest of the ride is a silent one except for the constant clicking of Anthea’s fingers as they rapidly send message after message on the mobile. John rests his head against the window and watched the world of London pass by. He’s not quite sure where he is despite priding himself in the ability to maneuver skillfully through the tiny streets and backways of London. However, the driver has taken quite a few sharp turns along small alleys and avenues with no names, and John can figure out that it’s only a tactic to disorientate him, make him feel lost and alone. While it’s a brilliant scare strategy that makes John wonder just who he’s dealing with here, it doesn’t affect him much. He was once a soldier, he keeps reminding himself.

 

Finally the sedan makes a turn and enters an old, abandoned warehouse. Whatever nervousness John had left faded immediately due to the utter ridiculousness and the cliché of his abductor’s chosen location to dump him at. John has to fight the urge to laugh hysterically. God, he thought warehouses only happened in movies. He does wish he had his phone, though.

 

The car door opens and the chauffer lifts a hand out to help John out, clearly having noticed the man’s limp and cane. John takes it and the man pulls him forward. John looks around. It’s a fairly large warehouse, dimly lit, and John is wondering his escape options when a voice sounds from behind him. “Pleasure to meet you, Dr Watson.”

 

John whirls around. A few feet in front of him stands and impeccably-dressed fae in a three-piece navy suit. A gold pocket watch dangles from his waistcoat. The fae has auburn hair, sharp blue eyes, and a familiarity about him that John can’t quite place. He is leaning on a black umbrella, and he is certainly not smiling.

 

“I’ve seen you before,” John says. “On the telly, I think. Don’t remember for what.”

 

The fae only smirks smugly. “Ah, so you pay attention. Then again, you must if you’ve somehow garnered the attention to become the flatmate of Sherlock Holmes.”

 

John’s back goes ramrod straight. He’s fine with being abducted on his own terms, but he refuses to allow someone else to be dragged into the mess with him. It’s simply unfair. “What about him?”

 

“Oh, I’m simply an interested party.” The fae says, twisting his umbrella.

 

“Yeah, and I don’t even know your name. Which is?”

 

“None of your concern, Dr Watson,” the fae says smoothly. “I’m simply watching out for Sherlock.”

 

Suddenly John remembers why the man looks so familiar. “You’re that politician.”

 

“Am I?” he asks. He looks, to John’s frustration and annoyance, amused at John’s comment.

 

“Yes, you are. Now, could you kindly tell me why on earth a bloody politician would decide to abduct me and what the hell this has to do with Sherlock Holmes?” John is irritated. And an irritated John is not someone you would want to be around.

 

“My, aren’t you straight to the point, Dr Watson. Yes, I did bring you here for a reason, and that reason does have to do with Sherlock.”

 

“And?”

 

“I have an offer to make. Every now and then I shall contact you-”

 

John can’t help but interrupt. The incredibly posh git’s voice is getting to be a nuisance, and besides, John has a genuine question. “You mean abduct me?”

 

The fae scowls, and the immature part of John whoops at the thought that he’s gotten a reaction out of the man. And pissed him off, too. Double score. “Yes,  _ abduct _ , as you insist on calling it. I’ll ask you how Sherlock is doing and you shall provide me with details on his life. Nothing lengthy, mainly a summary. The encounters-”

 

“You mean abductions.” John corrects. He’s fully aware that a cheeky grin is plastered on his face, not much unlike the one you may find on a particularly mischievous toddler. Quite frankly, John doesn’t care.

 

Umbrella Man grits his teeth, and the hand holding aforementioned umbrella twitches. “Abductions. They shall be random, timed with no pattern whatsoever, as to not attract suspicion. The entire thing must be done without Sherlock’s notice. I know living on an army pension must not be easy, and so for each  _ abduction  _ you will find five hundred pounds deposited in your bank account.”

 

John laughs. “You know, I still haven’t actually agreed to anything.”

 

“Dr Watson, it would be in your best interest to follow my directions,” the fae says threateningly.

 

Suddenly a cab, engines roaring at full speed, bursts into the warehouse, the driver slamming on the brakes just a couple meters from the fae and John. The passenger gets out. Dark curly hair frames his face as multicolored eyes glare at Umbrella Man. Sherlock does not look very happy.

 

“Mycroft,” he snarls, and finally John can put a name to the face. Mycroft. Wait. It’s Mycroft  _ Holmes _ . Oh, God, is this-

 

“Brother dear, I was merely looking out for your safety,” Mycroft defends. It’s clear Sherlock is not buying it.

 

“You mean trying to meddle into my life again in your ridiculous plan to take over and control me? Please, Fatcroft. You’ve eaten one too many pastries. Come along, John.”

 

John, completely and utterly confused, remembers to grab the groceries out of the sedan before following his flatmate to the cab. Mycroft’s eyes don’t leave them, and John is pretty sure they won’t until the cab is out of sight. To test his theory, John sticks his hand out the window and makes a rude gesture. From the rearview mirror he can see Mycroft’s patronizing frown go deeper. John fights the irrational urge to giggle.

 

“Who was that, anyway?”

 

“The most dangerous man you’ll ever meet. He claims to only occupy a minor position in the British Government, but the truth is he basically runs the Commonwealth.”

 

“You mean I just flipped off the British Government?”

 

Sherlock shrugs. “More or less.”

 

John can’t help the laughter that bursts from his throat. “Oh, God. I can’t believe I got shot for queen and country only to offend the government once I got back.” Sherlock snorts.

 

“And he called you brother?” John questions.

 

His flatmate rolls his eyes. “Yes, somehow I am biologically related to Mycroft, as annoying as the man can be. Trust me, I’ve done hundreds of DNA tests to determine it, and unfortunately, they all just proved it true.”

 

“What a horror.”

 

The detective smirks. “So did he ask for anything? My archenemy really loves pestering people around me for odd tasks.”

 

“Archenemy? Is that really the proper term?”

 

“The name fits, John.”

 

“You’re ridiculous. He asked me to spy on you and report back to him for information concerning you. He was going to pay me five hundred pounds for every bit that I could have gleaned about you and notified him about.”

 

“And what did you say?”

 

Sherlock’s face is unreadable, so John goes ahead and responds freely. “Well, I said no.”

The dark haired fae bursts into chortles. “Oh, what I would have given to be there. What did his face look like?”

 

“Shocked. Appalled. Has anyone ever said no to him before?”

 

The cab stops in front of 221B Baker Street. “I’m sure you’re the second after me,” Sherlock says, darting out of the cab. “Although you should have said yes and only provided him with trivial things. We could use the cash. Do use your head next time, John.” He races to 221 B, leaving John to pay for the cab fare. He rolls his eyes and dumps out a few notes before grabbing the groceries and going up to the flat.

 

He deposits the groceries on the kitchen table, which is mercifully free of lab equipment. “The blood?”

 

Sherlock is fiddling with the violin. “With the Yard. They suspect nothing, of course. Dimwits.” He glances outside through the window. “I do wonder who our killer is, though,” he says musingly. Suddenly, he looks at John’s reflection in the glass. A grin worthy of competing with the Chesire Cat lights up his face. “I’m off to bed,” he says. “Oh, and the cab’s outside. You left your cane in there.”

 

He leaves John there, stunned to high heaven. And sure enough, the cab is outside, the driver holding a familiar cane in hand.

 

XxX

 

_ Sammy wipes the blood off of his face. The body is still fresh, and the job is done. No witnesses. _

 

_ He kinda likes doing this, the whole draconian form thing. He can’t explain it. Maybe it’s the taste of fae blood. _

  
_ Just gives the thrill of murder a little  _ spice _. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments if you like, it really helps to know someone's reading my material. I'll start writing the next chapter soon. (It's weird, but it's always better when I write something out first.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! This chapter took a lot quicker than I expected and, even better, it’s completely Brit-picked (I’m American) but if there’s anything I missed feel free to tell me.
> 
> And now we’ve reached that gut-wrenching part where the author has to disclaim any rights to Sherlock BBC. Because I don’t. *cries*

John wakes up in the morning actually refreshed for once. He sits up in bed, blinks, realises this is not the shabby, small bedroom in the flat he calls his own, blinks again, and subsequently remembers all that happened last night.

 

After he and Sherlock arrived at Baker Street, John remembers, he told Sherlock that he had to go back to his own flat – all his things were still there. He barely made a single step toward the door before Sherlock stopped in front of him. “No,” he said. “I am going with you. I won’t stand to have you abducted again – at least, not alone. It simply wouldn’t do to have my meddlesome brother gloat over being able to catch you by yourself again. I would never hear the end of his taunting.” John rolled his eyes but accepted, not that he had much of a choice anyway. The crazy fae had cured his limp, after all. And so they had gone to pick up his meager things (Sherlock gazed way too appreciatively at John’s small Sig) and come back to Baker Street. John chose the upstairs bedroom, and Sherlock posed no argument.

 

Honestly, it was probably the most restful sleep he had ever gotten. John informed Sherlock of his post-war nightmares, but the detective only waved it off. John shrugged, but it appeared that Sherlock’s violin playing – and by that he meant actual  _ playing _ , not that horrid screeching sound that the fae did whenever he was frustrated – helped give John a more peaceful rest.

 

The ex-army doctor stretches his arms to the side, yawns, and slips out of bed, pulling on a housecoat as he traipses down the stairs. Once he is down he glances at the clock. 7:59. “Sherlock?” he calls, his military-trained eyes scanning the room for any sign of his flatmate. He grins slightly when he finds him sitting up on the sofa, eyes closed but clearly not asleep due to the rigidness of his posture. If anything, he just looks like a Buddhist monk meditating – but John’s pretty sure monks don’t wear slate blue silk dressing gowns and plaid pyjamas. He shakes his head despite the rising feeling of affection at the sight of the violin lying quite haphazardly on the sofa, almost tipping over to its peril, and the bow still clutched rather tightly in his flatmate’s hand as the dark haired fae sits.

 

John really doesn’t have the heart to disturb the fae – he looks so peaceful it would be a crime to, and besides, John doubts the man got a lick of sleep, he was playing violin for so long – and so instead John turns towards the counter. He opens up all the cupboards in search of mugs, tea, and milk, shifting to grab the kettle and, in doing so, spots a platter of scones lying on the table. They’re just a tad cold but John still grins at the sight of them. He will have to thank Mrs “not your housekeeper” Hudson later. The doctor sets the kettle on the stove and waits for the water to boil, wondering whether Sherlock takes milk and sugar in his tea.

 

As if to save John from answering the question himself, a soft rustling and the sound of feet padding towards him alerts John to the fact his flatmate has come out of his meditation or whatever it was. He turns around and offers a friendly smile to the raven haired fae. “Morning.”

 

Sherlock merely grunts in reply, sitting down at the kitchen table with aloofness. “I’ll have English tea, Earl Grey if there’s none, no milk, two sugars.”

 

John gapes at the man who is now unfolding a newspaper at the table, realises this is Sherlock bloody Holmes he is talking to, and settles for smiling in astonishment. “That really is brilliant, you know.”

 

Sherlock smiles smugly and is not doubt going to make a comment that will serve to glorify his ever growing ego and make John feel embarrassed when his mobile chirps from its perch on the table. Sherlock scowls at the offending device, which is currently ringing its mechanical lungs out in the centre of the table by the platter of scones. His so very oddly coloured eyes land straight on John. “John.” The doctor raises his head. “Get my phone for me.” John slowly turns around, wipes his tea-covered hand on a nearby towel, and raises an eyebrow at his ever eccentric flatmate. “I’m pretty positive I’m not your personal assistant or maid, Sherlock, and besides, the last time I willingly went to fetch you something I ended up getting abducted for it. Also, your mobile is within arm’s reach. Seriously, Sherlock.”

 

The phone keeps ringing with a mad perseverance as its owner looks just as persistently back at John. The consulting detective merely gives his black curls a sharp shake, his tousled hair bouncing all about his head. “No, I actually calculated the distance. While to you it may seem my mobile is within my arm’s reach, that is not true. I’d have to stretch over the table in order to reach it, and I really must get on reading this article, John. For science.” Sherlock points to an article in the technology section about quantum physics and some other mumbo jumbo that even John, with all his studies in science, would never be able to grasp even a concept of. He still isn’t going to let Sherlock get away with this, though.

 

He smirks. “Well, you’re a fae, aren’t you? Just summon it. Use telekinesis.” Sherlock frowns, his eyes back to the paper. “Takes too much concentration,” he mumbles.

 

The doctor glances at the still-ringing mobile, back to Sherlock, and back at the mobile again. Finally, he just rolls his eyes in exasperation, waves a hand upwards, and watches as the phone comes soaring gently into the air and straight on Sherlock’s open, waiting palm. Sherlock doesn’t look upwards from the article he is so absorbed in, but the corner of his mouth does curve up just a bit in victory. John scoffs. Sherlock takes the mobile and answers the call, the ringing finally stopping. He holds it to his ear, his gaze never leaving his paper. John’s attention goes back to the kettle as it whistles quite loudly and very sharply and takes a careful hold of it with a steady hand, wary of the scalding heat of the metal. Slowly he pours the steaming hot water into the ceramic mugs he has placed on the kitchen counter as he listens not subtly at all to Sherlock’s call.

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” the consulting detective says, peering intently at a rather odd diagram in the paper of a brain with lines drawn across it, placed next to a grisly picture of an autopsy gone wrong. John grimaces, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice, having gone silent. John hands him his steeping cuppa and notes that his flatmate’s brows are furrowed in confusion. “Repeat that one more time,” he says, his voice deadly quiet. John can’t help but poise in anticipation at the tone, his muscles tense and coiled for action.

 

There is a short moment of silence during which John presumes the caller is repeating themselves. Sherlock’s face only turns more grave. “But you do know that isn’t possible,” he says. “You of all people, Lestrade… no, think of how absolutely idiotic that forensics team at the Yard is… oh, yes they-” Silence again. The his strange, colourful eyes take in a glint of anger. “Are you accusing my integrity, Detective Inspector?” he asks so softly, and even John feels the threat despite the fact that it isn’t directed at him.

 

Yet another spell of quiet, and then Sherlock says again, “I tampered with  _ no evidence _ , Lestrade,” and John feels like he should admonish the detective for blatantly lying, but it was for a good cause, and as Sherlock said, NSY would be all too happy to throw Sherlock into the slammer, and John isn’t quite sure he’d be okay with that. “Now, do you want me to come or not?” Sherlock asks. “Do you really want to continue with this pointless accusation of yours?” The DI on the other end of the line answers, and Sherlock says in a clipped, short tone, “That’s what I thought,” before ending the call. John raises an inquisitive eyebrow, curious. “So what was that all about?” he asks.

 

Sherlock purses his lips, thinking. “There’s been a murder.” John isn’t even fazed by that, only nods for his flatmate to get on with talking. “Thirty years old, fae, politician, married with twins on the way.” John winces. That’s terrible, for those children to have to grow up without their father. “But his wallet, which was stuffed to the brim with notes, was left untouched. No mugging gone wrong, just cold murder. And what do you suppose they happened to find at the crime scene, John?”

 

John shrugs.

 

“An ample substance of blood. And when forensics went ahead and tested it, they saw something rather surprising.”

 

The doctor’s own blood freezes over, his veins feeling like they’re being substituted for a pack of iced peas. His heart quickly begins beating faster in a futile effort to warm himself and his suddenly very cold body. It doesn’t take a genius to understand the implications of Sherlock’s words, and John’s face is paler than snow. “Sherlock, please tell me it wasn’t dragon blood.”

His flatmate only laughs mirthlessly. “Most sincere apologies, my dear John, but sadly if I told you that I would be lying straight through my teeth.”

 

XxX

 

John had swallowed down two scones and half of his tea within two minutes in his haste to get up and dressed. The dragon had struck again. The bloody dragon had struck again. Just thinking the sentence in his own head sounded completely morbid and terrifying to John.

 

He had to practically shove a scone and some decent clothing onto Sherlock – the man had an obvious apathy towards both basic human necessities and a sense of modesty – before they rushed down the stairs with a hurried goodbye to Mrs Hudson. Sherlock once again pulled his magic hand and now they are in a cab. It’s unnaturally silent. Their previous cab rides together had been filled with sarcastic banter and rapid fire deductions delivered faster than the speed of light, but now with the reality of  _ there’s a bloody dragon on the loose in bloody London killing bloody fae  _ looming over their heads, making jokes about the British Government or the incompetency of NSY seems a hell of a lot less important.

 

They stop somewhere in Soho and the cabbie lets them out. As usual, Sherlock leaps out, abandoning John to pay up the fare, and bounds over to where police tape and flashing sirens surround a darkened alley, his great big Belstaff billowing behind him. John gets out and follows him. Sherlock steps under the tape and holds it up for John, his foot tapping in frustration. He’s the very picture of impatient demeanor. “Do hurry up, John,” he hisses through his teeth, and John rolls his eyes but goes under quickly anyway.

 

The body is soaked in its own blood, which streams sluggishly from a large bite mark and numerous ones on the torso and limbs in the neck. It’s clear what the cause of death was. John grimaces. From the many wounds on the corpse, the poor man’s murder was not a fast nor pleasant one.

 

The again, it’s murder. Murder is never pleasant.

 

Lestrade strolls up and glares at Sherlock. “We’ve done a retest of some more evidence from Tanaka’s death, and we found more dragon blood. Sherlock, I know you tampered with the blood we gave you, but I’m really hoping it was for a good reason, and so for now I’m not going to press charges. Especially with,” the tired-looking DI points in the general direction of the crime scene and swallows, “ _ this  _ going on.”

 

Sherlock nods, and beckons John to come and take a closer look at the body. His jaw is clenched tightly. John shudders. “So, we’ve got a live, real dragon in London.”

 

The detective smirks, but there’s no humour in it. “So it appears.” He frowns. “Now we just have to go ahead and catch it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wouldn’t you just hate it if I left it there?
> 
> Nah, just kidding. I’m not cruel like that. By the way, there’s this magic little thing called “Comments” that really, really makes my day and gives me a reason to write, so yeah… mind dropping me a comment?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who reviewed! Lots of kudos and cookies to those who did.
> 
> And special thanks to the absolutely wonderful TheGirlWhoWantsToBeAwesome, who beta read this chapter. You are awesome. *digital hug*
> 
> I don't own Sherlock BBC, but I am trying to find a way…

“There, there, now,” a voice, tinted with an odd accent, croons at the edge of John’s slowly waking conscious. In return, John groans in irritation. As his senses become more alert, he registers an insistent throb pounding for his attention at the back of his head –  _ very slight concussion, nothing too serious, but should ice it as soon as you can _ , his doctor voice says – the all-too familiar trickle of blood streaming from a bust in his lip –  _ oh, that’s a sucker punch, and you’ll definitely be nursing a swollen mouth for about a few days if you’re lucky ­ _ – and finally, a sear of fiery pain that screams from his side –  _ most likely a knife wound, fortunately not deep enough to puncture any major organs, but it was enough to scrape you up quite a bit. Conclusion? You’ve really been beaten up.  _ To test his situation, John tries shifting a bit. Nothing gives. It’s just as he suspected. Strapped down on a chair, hands bound behind his back, legs tied firmly to the chair.

 

Just swell.

 

With the mental analyses of his wounds and present situation done, John decides to risk opening his eyes and assessing his surroundings. Cobalt irises carefully scan the room, and John holds back an annoyed sigh. It’s the same warehouse that Sherlock’s posh brother Mycroft took him too. He wonders if this is a regular stop for politicians and criminals.

Ah, yes, criminals. A figure steps into view, and John comes face to face with a fae who has cropped brown hair and a strange look in his eyes as he stares at John. If John didn’t know any better, he’d say it was a pitying gaze. Another glance reveals the tan overcoat that the fae wears, and suddenly John knows two rather startling things with absolute certainty. One: the “fae” in front of him is no fae, but actually a killer dragon in disguise. Two: Very, very shortly, John is probably going to join the list of the dragon’s victims.

 

None of those things bode very well for John.

 

Honestly, Death never scared John H Watson. The early deaths of his parents when he was sixteen revealed to him that the act of dying was a cruel step of life, and everyone underwent it eventually. It’s a mentality that helped him go through his army years. John was never fearful of his own death, only others dying.  _ Human sodding beings _ who had sweethearts back home getting their lungs blown to bits.  _ Human sodding beings _ who braved a mission for the safety of other children and had their stomachs shot straight through by enemy fire.  _ Human sodding beings  _ who’s slowly dying eyes would plead with every goddamn deity, with the universe, with  _ John _ , to save them, and, as he worked furiously to prevent their fate, would eventually accept it, leaving John to watch helplessly as the vitality drained from their war-torn bodies. It was always the death of people that John was afraid of, not his.

 

In fact, after his invalidation, John embraced the thought of Death. For many depressed, murky weeks he had a never-ending part of his day where he couldn’t help but lift his eyes longingly to the third drawer of his dresser. It was the place that he knew his service weapon lay – the service weapon that he knew could end the misery of utter boredom by day and the reminder of those he failed to save by night. And as much as he could hear Ella’s voice in his head saying his thoughts were all PTSD, as much as he saw ads on the telly offering aid to former veterans, as much as he knew it was depression causing his suicidal thoughts in his broken head, all that knowledge didn’t make the pain any less real.

 

But then he bumped into Mike Stamford, and then he met Sherlock, and John swears he has never felt so alive since he was dodging bullets and failed to dodge one and got shot.

 

Now, as John meets the eyes of the dragon in the tan overcoat, he realises he quite likes having a heart that pumps steadily and lungs that intake with ease. He enjoys the whole “living” business, as long as it includes mad chases and murder and his new flatmate Sherlock. So John sets his jaw firmly and decides that dammit, he is not going to succumb to the cold clutches of Death by the hands of this dragon with a good, proper fight.

 

His major would be proud.

 

Seeing John’s sudden change in demeanor, the dragon smirks. “Oh, I’m not killing you.” John raises an eyebrow, mouth drawn in a grim line. “Oh, really?” he asks sarcastically, in perfect Sherlock-style. “Well. You did tie me up to this chair and decided to beat me while you were at it, so apologies for me assuming so.”

 

The dragon eyes him curiously. “You’re an interesting one, you know that? Really, I’ve got no clue what you did to make the boss this mad, but it must’ve been something. I’m not supposed to kill you, so you can stop with the whole fierce-looking thing. My only orders were to incapacitate you and bring you here.” The dragon stretches an arm out in a display of the warehouse. John realises he is sick of being abducted and brought to warehouses.

 

“Yes, this certainly is very original,” John retorts. “Bringing to poor, helpless abductee to an abandoned warehouse. I’m excited to meet your boss, I truly am.” Mentally, he makes a note that there is a boss. Sherlock was right – there is something bigger here, someone pulling the strings to play like a master puppeteer. John can only wonder  _ why _ . He continues his stare with the dragon, choosing to start a conversation to pass the time. It can’t hurt to start some friendly chat with a draconian murderer, can’t it? “So what’s your name?” he asks.

 

The killer hesitates just a bit, then answers. “Peter.”

 

John only widens his eyes incredulously. “You’re an assassin, and yet you can’t tell a white lie for the life of you. I’ve got a good mind to tell your boss all about that. I’m very sure he’ll be just delighted to find out. Please, don’t try to lie. And besides, I’m going to die soon anyway and you probably know everything there is to know about me. What’s the harm in telling me your name?”

 

The dragon glances around furtively as if something is going to jump out at any moment, but his shoulders are already drooped low in acceptance. He sighs. “Sammy. And for the record, if you do plan on telling my employer about my absolutely crappy lying skills, just keep in mind that that’s likely to be the last thing that comes out of your mouth.” Sammy shudders visibly. “My boss wants to kill you.  _ Personally _ . Says it’s a thing from the past that needs a reckoning day. And trust me, if there’s one thing that my employer knows how to do very, scarily well, it’s to how to ensure agonizing death.”

 

John is feeling brave (and, he admits it: a tad stupid.) He grins brightly. “Should be a right pleasure to meet him, shouldn’t it?

”

XxX

 

Sherlock pulls to an abrupt stop. He can’t hear the killer’s heavy footfalls anymore. The detective was certain that he was right in front, but now only silence greets him in the small corridor of London’s seedier parts. Frowning, he calls out. “John!”

 

He knows that John should only be a few metres down, if all went according to his plan. And all  _ should  _ have gone according to his plan. But a gnawing sensation only grows deeper when absolutely no sound comes from where the doctor definitely should have been. Sherlock’s frown grows deeper, and he shouts once more. “ _ John! _ ”

 

The detective gets nothing but the cry of a nearby pigeon and a slight  _ woosh  _ as the wind picks up, drifting through the darkness of the London night.

 

Sherlock runs forward to where he knows that John was and lifts his head up, trying to get a scent of the area. John’s familiar smell is faint but decidedly there, as is another foreign one which reeks of rather strong gunpowder –  _ carried a Colt revolver, by the smell of it _ – and a hint of sunflower seeds. It’s an odd combination, but its presence reveals that someone else was indeed here, and they were there at the same time as John.

 

He looks down and sees tire tracks in the mud, emanating the potent stench of petroleum. Sherlock crouches to his knees on the ground and examines the tracks with a sharp eye. Judging by the size, print and width, the tires are of a brand usually used for higher-end and more upscale vehicles. The oil used for it is one Sherlock knows well – it’s the same oil Mycroft uses to fuel all his damned sedans. Suddenly, everything makes sense.  _ Mycroft _ . Sherlock wants to charge after the nearest CCTV and raise his middle finger as high as it can go.  _ Stupidly overbearing big brothers _ , he rants to himself.

 

Instead, the detective settles for snaking his hand into his coat pocket and bringing his phone out. He scrolls through his contacts and selects one, holding the device impatiently to his ears as the phone rings out. Finally, after he’s tapped his foot to half of Mozart’s  _ Requiem _ in the darkness, an authoritative (and annoying) voice answers. “Why, what a pleasant surprise, little brother.”

 

“Yes, yes, what a surprise. Where is John and what have you done with him, you pompous arse?”

 

“Dr Watson?”

 

“No, Mycroft, Genghis Khan.  _ Of bloody course  _ Dr Watson! I know you’ve taken him again, and I want to know just where the hell you put him! We’re busy trying to catch a draconian murderer and prevent public panic, so please return him quickly. And don’t even  _ try  _ to deny you have him – I can smell your car.” Sherlock is not amused.

 

“Sherlock, I assure you that the good doctor is not with me. In fact, I haven’t seen him since our first meeting.”

 

“Abduction,” Sherlock automatically corrects. His brother sighs loudly over the phone. “Yes, abduction. I don’t have him, brother dear.”

 

“You liar.”

 

“What do I have to gain by lying to you?”

And that’s when Sherlock knows that Mycroft truly doesn’t have John, and something akin to dread begins to grow in Sherlock’s chest. “Then where,  _ brother dear _ , is he?”

 

Mycroft pauses briefly. “Anthea and I shall check the CCTV cameras. Sherlock, trace his scent. Quickly, now!”

 

Sherlock takes a deep inhale of John’s scent, and once it’s engraved in his memory, he takes off like a madman.

 

Which, when he thinks about it, isn’t so far from the truth.

 

XxX

 

Sammy shakes his head. “Are you mad? Do you have any idea of what’s about to happen to you?”

 

Adrenaline shoots through John’s veins. “Long, painful, agonizing death. I figured. You told me. But honestly, I really don’t feel like expiring as easily as your so-called ‘employer’ would like me to. He’s definitely got another thing coming.”

 

The dragon looks like he’s about to say more, but he’s stopped by the sound of another person entering the room. Said person has a look of childlike cheer on his face, and he wears a brown Westwood – likely more expensive than John’s monthly army pension – and a gold watch. He practically radiates an overly excessive amount of intellect, wealth, and power. “Hi!” he calls, in a high-pitched tone, his Irish accent making it seem soft somehow. “I’m James Moriarty. Call me Jim.”

 

James Moriarty. That rings a bell somewhere in John’s head, but for the life of him he can’t place the name to a face or even a memory. So he straightens his back like a true soldier and returns the greeting. “Dr Watson. Call me John.”

 

The man –  _ fae _ , John thinks – grins and lets loose a giggle. If he were in a different situation, John would have found it amusing; now it only seems psychotic. “Oh, this is going to be so much  _ fun _ , Johnny boy. You really don’t remember who I am, do you?”

 

John furrows his brows. “Am I supposed to?”

 

“Aw, would you just look at the cute little soldier boy, trying to play with the big guns. Be careful, though,” the light smile suddenly warps into a cruel sneer, “you might get  _ shot _ .” Moriarty looks at Sammy. “You, out. Guard the entrance. Someone gets in, you’re a pair of shoes. Turn into a dragon, might make you into a piece of art. Understand?”

 

Sammy nods mechanically. “Yes sir.” He darts quickly towards the entrance of the warehouse, where John sees that a sniper rifle has been set up. He wonders if Sherlock knows he’s been kidnapped. John hopes the detective doesn’t go after him – he really doesn’t want Sherlock to get killed because of him.

 

Moriarty’s voice broke John from his thoughts. “Well, Johnny boy, looks like I’m going to have to reteach you all about your acquaintance. First, let me further introduce myself.” He gives a small mock bow. “I’m a consulting criminal, the only one in the world. I have a network of crime, and I’m the head of it all.”

 

His words seem to turn on a light in John’s mind. “Oh.  _ Oh _ .”

 

The self-proclaimed consulting criminal tilts his head to the side, looking mildly curious. “Oh what?”

John leans back in his chair, realisation taking over his features. “Hmm. I get it now. The whole dragons thing, the killings, even you kidnapping me. Is this all to get back at Sherlock Holmes? Did he expose some of your criminal activities or maybe a part of your crime network? And this whole case was to get his attention, and kidnapping me to ensure you draw him in close enough to extract your idea of vengeance?” He feels proud for having finally figured it out.

 

To the doctor’s surprise, Moriarty only stares at him blankly for about half a second before he burst not peals of laughter. “Oh, now this is a surprise! You think this is all about that detective, and I must admit it – he is quite the thorn in my side – but this time, he was not my primary target.”

 

Confused, John frowns. “Then who are you trying to get to?”

 

A wicked grin makes it way on Moriarty’s face, “Come on, Johnny boy. You really are slow. Think it out.”

 

John’s eyes widen as he stares back at his abductor. Shock seems to paralyze his every move and reaction, and he can finally place where he remembered Moriarty’s name from. It’s like he has just solved the puzzle, but the picture it makes is definitely not one in John’s favour. “This is about me.”

 

_ Private James Moriarty. _

 

He heard it during his wartime days, specifically after a particularly fierce battle against desert-toughened Afghan guerilla troops. John had been working in the triage unit, and moaning soldiers with wounds too horrible and too awful to describe were being brought in from the front lines of battle faster than John could blink. Every doctor, no, every person with an inkling of medical knowledge was working frantically around the clock in a desperate attempt to save the life of the person lying on linen sheets in front of them – no matter how hopeless it was.

 

One of John’s patients was a young fae by the name of Colonel Sebastian Moran. He was about the age of twenty-six and had coarse hair not unlike the colour of desert sand and light brown eyes. The reason for his being sent to the battlefield infirmary? A jagged scar across his eyelid, luckily not hitting his actual eye, and, to John’s horror and dismay, a hole from a bullet leaking bright red blood in the middle of Moran’s chest. It was a wonder to explain how he was still alive – the bullet had to have pierced his lung if not his heart, and the colonel was already slipping in and out of consciousness.

 

In the end, John did everything in his power to save Moran, but it didn’t prove to be enough. The lack of a pulse not two minutes after Moran was brought in betrayed Death’s presence, and John sadly zipped him up in a black body bag. When the list of casualties was released two days later, there was talk amongst the soldiers of a private who, after learning of Moran’s death, went off and deserted his post. He was never heard from again. The private’s name?

 

_ Private James Moriarty. _

 

“This is about Colonel Moran.”

 

A twinge of pain flickers briefly across Moriarty’s face, but the expression is gone as quickly as it came. “So you’ve finally gathered enough memory to figure it out. Yes. Sebby was my  _ dracusto _ .”

John frowns. “Sorry? What the hell is a  _ dracusto _ ?”

 

Moriarty lifts an eyebrow in amusement, and John can’t help but compare it to the way a parent might look at a not very bright toddler trying to fumble their way around. “I didn’t expect you to be this ignorant of the world, Johnny. I was really hoping that you would have gotten this all solved and figured out. It would have made things  _ much  _ easier.” He sighs in resignation. “Well, I always come prepared, and there is the alternative just in case this was to happen. Which it did.”

 

“Ignorant about what?” John asks as apprehension creeps into his voice.

 

The consulting criminal yawns widely. “Oh, just the basics of dracology 101. It’s too bad, it truly is, that you don’t know about  _ dracustos _ . I wonder if you even know what you really are.”

 

“What I really am?”

 

Moriarty scoffs. “But of course you don’t, since you are sadly very dense. Now, to answer your question: you’re a dragon, John.”

 

XxX

 

Somewhere in a small room in a place that you would have to be killed if you ever learned of its existence, someone speaks.

“Sir, we’ve spotted Dr Watson. The sedan in which he was taken was transported to the docks, but our surveillance of him stops there. Unfortunately, we have no cameras in the port.”

 

Mycroft frowns. “Why not, Barnes?”

 

Barnes chews his upper lip nervously. “Well, sir, you actually struck a deal with all the heads of the port companies that, as long as they stopped warring amongst themselves you wouldn’t keep surveillance on them.”

 

The politician narrows his eyes at Barnes. “And when have I ever paid attention to those irksome treaties that I make?”

 

“Never, sir.”

 

“Exactly. Check the docks. Are there any large buildings in the area?”

 

“There are three, sir. Ironically, one of them is actually the warehouse where you met formally with Dr Watson.”

 

Mycroft doesn’t know why Dr Watson has been kidnapped (despite the fact that he has a feeling that it’s for something out of his control, and he hates that feeling) but he does know that whoever this mystery kidnapper is, it’s highly likely they have a flair for dramatics. “He’s in there. Get Sherlock on the phone.  _ Now _ .”

 

Barnes scrambles to get Mycroft’s mobile and dials the number.

 

XxX

 

Sherlock is chasing down the scent trail through the back alleys of London when his phone rings. It’s Mycroft. He grabs it, not sparing a second for stopping, and answers. “What?” Neither of them have the time for trivial greetings.

 

“Dr Watson is in the same building where I first met him. I’m sending Barnes over to pick you up. Not a sedan this time, a nondescript small vehicle. Blue. Don’t question it, just get it the car. Trust me, driving will be far more efficient than you sprinting along alleys.”

 

The consulting detective considers this for a moment, allowing the thought to roll over in his head. 

“But I could –”

 

“None of your inane ideas, now. Just be quiet and get in the car.”

 

XxX

John stares at Moriarty and is absolutely certain that the other man has gone absolutely mad. “Um. No. I’m a fae. I’m pretty sure I would know if I were a dragon.”

 

Moriarty seems to consider this. “Well, there is a reasonable explanation for that. You’re only half dragon. One of your parents was a full-fledged dragon, I’m not quite sure which.”

 

“I’m  _ not _ a dragon. Or half-dragon. Whatever. I wouldn’t have passed the RAMC’s DNA tests if I were a dragon.”

 

The consulting criminal rolls his eyes. “I’m a dragon and I passed the test easily. Haven’t you been told that dragon and fae DNA structures are very,  _ very  _ alike?” John hears Sherlock’s voice in his head:  _ “Even in the army, where you are rigorously tested, a dragon who is careful could probably get away with it _ .”

 

John frowns at the memory but chooses to ignore Moriarty’s comments about him being a dragon – that’s simply impossible. He decides to change the subject, but not before registering that Moriarty is indeed a dragon. He swallows. “You still haven’t explained what a  _ dracustos _ is.”

 

Moriarty claps his hands in excitement. “It’s Latin. Means, quite literally, ‘dragon guardian’. They’re a more evolved group of fae, and their entire purpose is to protect and tame dragons through alliances. Moran was a  _ dracustos,  _ and he was allied with me. When you let him die, I had to take action.”

 

John wonders if it’s worth arguing with Moriarty about how Moran’s death wasn’t directly his fault, but shuts the idea down quickly. It would probably fall on deaf ear. “And how does your nutty belief that I’m a dragon have to play into all this?” He knows there’s no way in hell he’s an actual bloody half-dragon.

 

The madman grins. “You still don’t see the truth, don’t you?” He takes a syringe out of his breast pocket. “Fine. If you’re not a dragon, this will have absolutely no effect on you, and I’ll be forced the snap your neck – which, in my opinion, is no fun at all. If you are,” he practically jumps with glee, “then I’m right. Don’t worry, Johnny boy. I plan on avenging Moran the way I was meant to.” He takes a step forward. Almost instinctively John leans back. “How’s that?” he asks.

 

Moriarty’s creepy grin stretches even wider. Without saying anything, he plunges the syringe into John’s arm, watching intently as the clear fluid in it empties into the veins in the crook of John’s elbow. He steps back, eyes scrutinizing John’s face. “As dragons.”

 

And suddenly John is transforming.

 

XxX

 

The small car stops just in front of the dimly lit warehouse, and Sherlock immediately spots the sedan that took John parked right in front of it. Clearly they weren’t expecting company, if they left it in such an obvious place. John’s scent is a mere wisp through the heavy odour of spoilt fish, rotting seaweed, and grimy water – all characteristics of the London docks. Sherlock does not want to have “swim in the Thames” on his bucket list.

 

He gets out of the car, and Barnes wordlessly hands him a gun. Sherlock instantly recognises it as John’s service weapon and gives a silent nod in thanks, slipping out of the vehicle and over to the building. He figures the entrance will be watched, likely by the pawn that is the killer, and opts to go through the side exit. He heads towards a small door to the left of the warehouse, picking the lock within a matter of seconds. The only sound in the air is the quiet  _ smack  _ of the Thames gently washing over the rocks of the port as Sherlock silently opens the door and enters, John’s gun firmly held in his hand. Mentally he hopes that Mycroft’s promised back-up arrives quickly – one weapon against whatever he’s about to face is not going to be enough.

 

When he closes the door with all the skill of a sneaky mouse and lifts his multicoloured eyes, he realises it’s going to take much, much more than Mycroft’s reinforcements to ensure that he and John both get out of the warehouse in one piece.

 

In front of him are two full-size dragons, one a dark, velvety, chestnut colour with equally dark eyes, and the other an odd blonde-silver combination with deep blue irises. The lighter one seems to be unsteady and not very coordinated with its movements, whereas the other moves with a practised grace as it circles the light dragon like one would prey. Hatred and murder gleams in its large reptilian eyes.

 

Needless to say, it doesn’t take long for Sherlock to figure out just what is going on. With a steady hand he lifts John’s pistol, aiming right at the dark dragon’s scaled forehead. His finger clicks the safety off and he thumbs the trigger.

 

Then the dark dragon makes eye contact and barks a sharp order, and Sherlock barely has time to register the blow before he slumps unconscious to the floor.

 

XxX

 

John is a dragon. John is a bloody dragon.  _ Half-dragon _ , he reminds himself numbly.

 

He looks down at the chair where he was strapped down mere moments ago. It seems so tiny and miniscule now. His clothes are in tatters, but his jeans seem somewhat salvageable. The rope that was in use for holding him to the chair, however, is not so lucky. It lies in pieces on the tiles.

Movement behind him causes him to look backwards. He sees a tail. A sodding  _ tail _ .  _ Repeating yourself is not going to make it go away _ , a voice sounding annoyingly like Sherlock’s says. John huffs, but stops when he notices the wings. Large wings are attached to his body, drawn in close to his sides, tipped with leather and covered in scales. Oh, yes, he has  _ scales _ now. They’re the same not-quite-blonde-but-not-quite-grey colour of his hair. His feet have been replaced by huge three-toed paws with long, sharp claws where the nails would be. John doesn’t even want to know what he’ll find if he looks in a mirror. He’ll probably pass out from the sheer shock.

 

He realises that his physical appearance isn’t the only thing changed. His senses, too, have been heightened – he sees things more defined and large, hears the scuttle of birds on the roof, smells the rancid reek of the docks, tastes dust in the air, and feels the tiled floor with extra sensitivity. Unfortunately, this also means he feels like his injuries have also been ratcheted up on the pain meter.

 

An amused snort catches his attention, and his head swivels forward. The place where Moriarty once stood is now occupied by a dark brown dragon, roughly about the same size as John. Moriarty’s eyes are filled with fire, and he stalks menacingly towards John. John makes an attempt to move as well, but he’s unused to walking about in a body of this massive size and can’t maintain his balance.

 

John contemplated before how he was going to die over the years. Many,  _ many  _ times. Sometimes he died peacefully in his old age with a wife and 4 grandchildren and a white picket fence (admittedly, this was rare). Frequently he thought of dying in action – a stray bullet from enemy lines that he didn’t see in time, perhaps while trying to save the life of a comrade (clearly this option was out.) Occasionally he passed of a simple accident.

 

But  _ never _ did John ever think that he would die by the hands –  _ claws,  _ his mind corrects – of an absolutely bonkers dragon with a carefully plotted out revenge plan involving something that happened over half a decade prior.

 

It almost makes a part of John feel flattered that someone would go to this extent just to kill him. He quickly admonishes that part.

 

Suddenly Moriarty’s gaze comes away from John and locks with something behind him. His eyes widen briefly in clear surprise, but it quickly turns into a kind of psychopathic humour and a hint of rage. His Irish voice resounds in the air, but his maw doesn’t move, and John knows he’s using telepathy.  _ Sammy. How dare you allow someone to come in. Get rid of it. Now. _

 

Faster than the speed of light, John watches as Sammy spins around and fires his gun without a blink, then eyes Moriarty with pure fear in his eyes before grabbing the weapon and running out of the warehouse on clearly shaky legs. John feels the bullet fly right past up and turns to see the intended target. Horror rises up in his chest as he sees the form of the one and only Sherlock Holmes collapse onto the floor like a ragdoll. Crimson blood flows out, staining his shirt in the upper torso area.

 

_ Oh my god. Oh my god. That’s right where his goddamn heart is. _

 

Moriarty sighs.  _ Ah, Sammy left. Oh well. I’ll get him later. But first, you. _

 

The horror dissipates at the sound of Moriarty’s casual tone, leaving John with only the feeling of complete rage. He swivels around to face the dark dragon, his fury only growing at the sight of the almost bored-looking criminal. With reddened vision, John relies on pure instinct and gives a loud roar, flapping his wings and leaping at Moriarty.

 

Moriarty only swipes a talon out, slashing at John’s side and making John release a cry of pain. Anger boiling inside of him, he tackles the dark dragon to the floor with a fierce grip, and both immediately begin to grapple for the upper hand, snapping at each other with sharp teeth. Moriarty finally manages to break free of John’s hold, but is only brought back in when John surges forward and pins him to the tiles. Moriarty seems shocked at John’s ferocity and lets his defense slide a bit.

 

It’s his fatal mistake.

 

All John can see is red. Red, red,  _ red.  _ Unadulterated rage burns inside of him, making his heart feel like it’s on fire, as he glances down at Moriarty.  _ The killer of my only friend. _

 

The second Moriarty becomes distracted, John takes his chance. He feels no remorse, no regret as his rears his great head up and crushes Moriarty’s windpipe with his teeth.

 

As soon as he does so, he begins to transition back, and soon he is standing over the beaten body of James Moriarty, his throat torn out. He kicks the corpse to the side in disgust, wincing when the action makes his wounds flare in pain. Remembering Sherlock, he hurriedly pulls on his torn jeans and rushes to Sherlock’s side. Quickly, he feels for a pulse. John breathes a sigh of relief when he registers the faint tap of a heartbeat in Sherlock’s wrist. He reaches for Sherlock’s mobile – Sammy likely made off with his – and begins to dial 999 when a familiar voice stops him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were in your particular predicament. Not only do I have the service of far better medics than any hospital, but I do believe it would be rather hard to explain how on earth the two of you got to such a state.”

 

John turns around to find Mycroft Holmes, leaning on his umbrella as men search the building. Oddly, his PA is nowhere to be seen. “Mycroft. We need to stabilize him.  _ Now _ .”

 

A team of Mycroft’s personal medical staff – John doesn’t want to know why he needs one – loads Sherlock into a private ambulance, John following right on their heels. A young nurse tries to tend to his wounds but John waves him off, choosing to help the doctors with Sherlock as he puts on scrubs and medical gloves. Everyone is moving quickly, attempting to staunch the blood flow from the bullet hole and Sherlock is hooked up to about twenty thousand machines. John is checking Sherlock’s vitals when he hears the worst sound of his life.

 

Sherlock flat-lines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's chapter 6! I'm planning for three more chapters, so this should wrap up pretty soon. Don't forget to comment! And subscribe! And bookmark! All three are my biscuits, tea and jam for writing.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy this, as I did writing it. If there's one thing I love more than reading, it's writing fanfic based on reading. And with "Sherlock" airing in 2017 *cries into pillow* I have to do something to allow me to not go crazy. Cheers!
> 
> Betaed by the lovely ThatGirlWhoWantsToBeAwesome. Cheers!
> 
> Alas, I do not own Sherlock BBC, that is solely Mofftison's right. Lucky them.

Sherlock is _elated_.

First there was a murder, a brilliantly planned murder, with undeniable links to deeper, darker parts of the cleverly hidden criminal underworld. Sherlock oh so dearly loves bringing entire groups of criminals to their knees. It’s a special fondness of his, especially when a member of Scotland Yard happens actually know one of said criminals and sputters in disbelief.

 For Sherlock, the spectacle is highly amusing. For the stunned officer, not so much.

As if this thought wasn’t intriguing enough, there was the dragon blood. And oh, that was simply _perfect_! Mysterious, off-place, definitely should not have been squandering around the streets of London. The smell of dragon around Tanaka’s body was unmistakable – although no one else should have been able to trace the scent except for Sherlock – and the clear draconian tang wisped through the air, an aroma Sherlock hadn’t ever expected to find despite his enhanced sense of smell. A dragon had most assuredly been in the room, but he also wasn’t about to let anyone know of his latest deduction. Heaven forbid Mycroft have to swoop in and orchestrate some way to bring London back to functionality from the depths of dracophobia and sheer pandemonium. Sherlock couldn’t even stomach the thought of his brother’s overly smug face as he rescued the Commonwealth once again.

And not to mention the other, more thrilling murder! That one was much more clean and precise, indicating that there was, in fact, another killer. Excellent. Sherlock bent down, swiped the victim’s wallet in plain sight of the overbearing Yarders, dragged John off of the crime scene, and headed for Speedy’s in search of some coffee to stimulate his brain. Mycroft, the meddling man, had convinced Lestrade to hide his cigarettes again. How _annoying_.

Finally, of course, there was John H Watson. The man Mike Stamford had quite inelegantly snatched from his very likely depressed hell of a life (as well as high chance of suicide within the next six months) and dumped straight into Sherlock’s fast-paced world of crimes at midnight, violins at 3 am, and random experiments with human fingernails in the morning.

John is an interesting man; Sherlock cannot deny that. There is an air around him that he hasn’t been able to pinpoint yet, but is sure he will soon. There’s always _something._

Now said ex-army doctor sits across from him, gazing longingly at the platter of biscuits like one would a lover. Sherlock wonders if food-sex is legal. He’ll have to ask Mycroft. For now, he’s had enough of the face John is making – it really is disgusting. “Stop fantasizing about jam, it’s frankly rather disturbing. Do you want to know what I didn’t tell the Yard or not?” the detective snaps.

At last John looks up from his beloved biscuits and jam, clearly reluctant in doing so. Sherlock barely suppressed the strong urge to knock the platter to the floor, but he has a feeling John wouldn’t take very kindly to that. Besides, Sherlock really doesn’t want to get clocked by a former Captain, never mind the bullet wound in his shoulder. John braces his hand against the side of his face. “Fine. Tell me how.”

Sherlock can’t even convey the insolence he feels emanating from the doctor. However, he refuses to address it, only saying with as much superiority he can muster, “Well, since you asked so politely, I will. In the victim’s wallet, which I took from the crime scene, are most of your average objects, but I noticed something rather odd.” Unable to retain his victorious glow, he pulls the wallet from his coat and tosses it onto the table. John appears to choke on his saliva and closes his eyes for a brief moment as if in prayer, then takes a long, slow intake of his piping hot cuppa. “You stole a piece of evidence.”

Oh, just like the moral, good-willed, loyal doctor to be stuck on that one action, ‘stealing.’ How ridiculous. Sherlock merely gives John an annoyed look. Social standards and righteousness are, in Sherlock’s opinion, absurd and completely unnecessary. “Now is not the time to have a moral dilemma, John. If anything, never is the time to have a moral dilemma. They’re trivial and utterly time-consuming.” He punctuates this by opening the wallet with a dramatic flair and scattering all of its insides across the table, sifting through them intently. Sherlock can almost feel John’s reluctant compliance to go along with Sherlock, and the ensuing eye-roll. The doctor finally gives in despite his clear problem with Sherlock’s methods and take the bait. “Let me guess: there’s something in the wallet that wouldn’t normally be there, and which could potentially lead us to Evans’ murderer?”

Sherlock grins delightedly. At last, someone has actually used their brain to think! He shoves a blast of coffee down his throat and snatches the aforementioned incriminating piece of evidence, causing it to become more visible across the mess of clutter it’s in. It’s small, a simple piece of paper, but Sherlock knows from experience that it’s the smallest things that make or break a case.

“This.”

XxX

John stares at the address and number written on the scrap of paper. 4 Brookdale Heights, 020-9627-8726. “Sherlock, it’s a piece of contact information. Probably an old mate or something, trying to reconnect. What on earth does this have to do with anything?”

Sherlock only smiles even wider. “You see, John, but you do not observe,” he says, licking his finger and smearing it across the tiny scrap, causing the thick black ink of the writing to become slightly smudged. “You see how this writing smudges? It’s because it’s been penned fairly recently, likely only an hour, probably less, old. Now, since Evans was off getting himself killed an hour ago, I highly doubt he was out meeting so-called ‘old mates’ and exchanging numbers. No, only one person would have written all of this down. Now John, can you think of who this person might have been?”

Chills run up John’s spine as spikes of anticipation – as well as a probably more than healthy dose of adrenaline – make their way through his veins. “The killer.”

The detective claps loudly as he flicks his wrist casually, making the slip of paper rise up into the air, hovering just above their faces. He locks his eyes on it, examining it with all the precision that John recalls having when performing emergency surgery on fallen soldiers in Afghanistan. “This is sketchbook paper, bought at a convenience store from the look of it, the ink belonging to that of a black gel pen. There are no smudges or fingerprints on it, unfortunately, but why would the killer leave a note, John?”

John shrugs, choosing to slather a biscuit with jam and nibble on it as he gazes at the paper. “I have no clue.”

“Because whoever this killer’s employer is, they know I’m on the case, and they want my attention. It’s so painfully obvious: the dramatic murders, the presence of dragon blood, no obvious motive, all to stump the Yard to the point where they’re forced to ask me for help. Whoever is behind all of this wants to be chased. The address is a likely meeting place for them to meet me, and the number to contact them. I need to borrow your phone, John.” The fae stretches his hand out for the mobile. John, still trying to input all of these rapidly-delivered revelations Sherlock dumped in his head and attempt to make sense of them, hands it over without a second thought. Immediately Sherlock begins typing out a text message, sends it, and gives it back. “I’ve made contact with the killer,” he says triumphantly. John’s eyes widen as he realises what Sherlock has done. “Oh God,” he exclaims. “Please tell me you did not just use my phone to send a text to _a dragon murderer_.”

“Do you really want me to lie to you, John?” is the haughty answer.

Panicking slightly, John checks his phone and sees that yes, a message was sent to the number on the paper, 020-9627-8726. “20:00,” it reads. “Great, Sherlock,” John says sarcastically. “Now there’s a sodding murderer, who’s also a dragon, running around out there who has my number. Don’t I feel so safe now.”

“Better yours than mine, as mine is in danger of being recognized, and besides, you never were ‘safe’”, Sherlock replies. “Safety is a concept conjured by childhood reminiscences of home and comfort, but in reality no one is truly ever safe. Chance demands tragedy occur to everyone. Now, I imagine the killer would have gotten my little message by now, so we best be off.” John scowls, shaking his head. “I can just imagine writing this on my blog: investigated two murders, watched as a consulting detective made NSY look like fools, and chased after a draconian murderer. My therapist is going to really love all that. I can already see the words – possible insanity.”

Sherlock grins. “First of all, the Yard doesn’t need to be made to look like fools, they already do it to themselves.” He slips out of his chair, beckoning John to do so as well, and slides out the door, waving a hand in the air for a taxi. “Second of all, she’s right. Writing about every single little thing that happens to you is genuinely going to help. However, so far she has been wrong about everything else. If I were in your position, I would fire her.” A cab pulls up, and both detective and stunned doctor climb into the backseat. “4 Brookdale Heights.” Sherlock says.

John rubs the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock, how on earth did you know what my therapist has told me? How did you even know she was _female_?”

The cab begins driving, and Sherlock turns to John, his expression screaming, _oh, please_. “John, you’ve watched me deduce not only your entire life, but also two seemingly impossible murders and the secret dealings of an innocent-looking cabbie. Do you really doubt that I would have known about your therapist?”

Well, John has to admit it – the idea that Sherlock _wouldn’t_ have known about Ella is pretty far-fetched. He slides into the seat, watching as the afternoon light begins to dim into dusk.

XxX

“If you get caught, Sammy, I will flay you alive, and peel your skin off for a new suit. I have a client with a particular penchant for ties made of human toes.” His employer says over the phone. Somehow the soft Irish accent makes the threat sound even more dangerous, in Sammy’s opinion. He nods, forgetting said employer can’t see him. “Yes, boss.”

“Good. You remember the plan?” Sammy chews on the inside of his cheek, checking his Rolex for the time. “Yeah, boss. The girl here?” His employer, he can practically feel it, is obviously jumping up and down with anticipation. “Of course. Do you know, Sammy, how long I’ve waited for this moment?” The assassin clicks the safety off of his revolver. It’s a Colt, handed down to him by his American father, and yes, he is very proud. “Yes sir.”

“It’s time. Go. _And don’t you dare screw up_.”

With that ringing in his ears, Sammy takes off.

XxX

Sherlock is pacing up and down an alleyway near 4 Brookdale Heights as John watches him, not even bothering to conceal his growing amusement at the detective’s mounting impatience. “Do stop smiling so, John, it doesn’t bode so well for you age,” the irritated fae snipes, only resulting in John grinning ever the wider. “Oh, what time is it?” he asks, his long coat fluttering behind him while he stomps in frustration. John is reminded briefly of a stubborn, smaller (yet just as feisty) Harry, who at the age of three years old decided she did not like milk and was damn well not going to take it. “20:06,” John answers, checking his mobile.

This doesn’t sooth the high-strung detective. His fingers go straight to his curly hair, attacking the strands in his anger. “He should have been here by now! Why isn’t he here, John? All my deductions were correct and the killer was supposed to –”

He cuts himself off when the two of them hear a sharp snapping sound, as if someone stepped on a stray twig and cracked it in half, coming from the darkness in front of them. John’s hand inches towards the waistband of his jeans instinctively, but he curses himself when he remembers he left his gu at 221B. _Dammit, John, going off like that with a mad consulting detective to a bloody crime scene and not even bringing your gun? Are you trying to get killed?_

Footsteps resound in the alleyway, and both Sherlock and John stand filled with tense anticipation as a figure crawls out of the shadows and into the dim light of the streetlamp. To John’s confusion, it’s a befuddled woman. Dilated pupils and the suspiciously white crumbs on her tattered clothing suggest a homeless substance abuser, and she’s high as a kite. She blinks blearily at the both of them. “Why, hullo!” she calls out cheerily. Suddenly her eyes sharpen, clearly filled with terror. “Oh!”

That is the very last word she speaks before a gunshot fires from behind John, and he watches in horror as the woman falls to the ground. Blood gushes out from the messy wound in her skull. John rushes to her, years of doctor training kicking in, but he knows deep down she was dead before she hit the asphalt. A quick check of her tragically still pulse confirms his dread.

Sherlock’s voice breaks him from his thoughts. “John, it’s no use. She’s dead.” Insistence pours into his tone as he gestures frantically down the road the killer fled down. “Now, if you want to get her justice, run!”

John leaps to his feet without blinking twice as Sherlock swivels on his heel, Belstaff flying behind him, and breaks into a sprint. “Hurry, John!” The former army doctor silently thanks his major, whose idea of fun was running at breakneck speeds in the middle of hot desert terrain, and follows.

Exhilaration, accompanied by adrenaline, shoot through his bloodstream, heart pumping a mile a minute, and he knows that this thrill is what he lives for. Sherlock eyes him. “Down there!” The two of them skid to the side, coming out of the alleyway and into a bustling street filled with chatting pedestrians. John scans the area carefully for a fleeing figure, but the detective next to him beats him to it. “Tan overcoat, closely cropped brown hair, at the crosswalk. That’s our man. Go!” John doesn’t need any more preamble than that, merely takes off in a dash the second the words are out of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock practically glides through the dense crowds with an ease that John, being more square, could never muster. He does make a point to apologize to any pedestrian he happens to ram into, but his real attention is reserved for training his eyes on one person – the man in the tan overcoat. The killer.

_The dragon._

The two of them continue their mad sprint with Sherlock shouting out directions and John following him eagerly, heart singing with the chase. They’re gaining on the killer, John can see it clearly, and the thought that the two of them are hunting down a real, live dragon only serves to heighten his adrenaline levels and make his mind race faster. _Oh, I’ve missed this_ , he thinks. Suddenly Sherlock skids to a stop. “We almost have him, but if we’re going to have a better chance of holding him we have to split up.” The fae points down a small cobblestone street down to John’s left. “Just run straight down there. You should be able to find some garbage bins, and make an immediate right when you see them. You have your gun?”

John grimaces at the reminder of his carelessness. “No. It’s on my chair, I think, at 221B.” Sherlock frowns, but shrugs. “We can make do without it. I’ll be chasing him, so be ready to corner and catch the killer. Whatever you do, John, _don’t stop running_. Now!”

Immediately the two of them take off in separate directions. John sees the disposal bins and swerves to the right into a small backroad. He can’t even hear the noise of London over the rush and roar of blood in his ears and the fast pants out of his mouth as he stumbles to catch his own breath. John peers into the darkness, attempting to see the killer, but the glow of the moon doesn’t provide a lot of light. John can hardly see his own hand, let alone five feet in front of him. Clenching his left hand, he resolves to use his hearing to tackle the approaching dragon, straining to catch even the smallest of sounds. A little laugh escapes him at the thought. Out of nowhere, his mobile buzzes. Confused and more than a little curious, John holds out on reaching for it for the span of about five seconds before giving in and slipping the device from his pocket. It’s a message from a private number. John groans at what it says.

 **Get in the car _._ ** It reads simply, as a black sedan pulls of behind him. _Probably Mycroft_ , John thinks. He half expects Anthea to come out of the car, her attention solely focused on that damn BlackBerry, and threaten him vaguely to get in the car. However, John doesn’t move an inch towards the car. He’s had enough of arrogant geniuses, and besides, he would much rather incur the wrath of the bloody British Government than allow a killer to get away. John could never live with himself if he did.

His mobile rings once again. This time, though, the message sounds much, much more ominous. **If you ever want to see Harry Watson alive again, it would be in your best interest to get in the car.**

Infuriated, John stomps over to the car. _No one_ threatens John H Watson’s little sister. He peers inside the darkened windows, seeing a figure inside. “Mycroft, what the bloody _hell­_ –”

A fist flies out of the shadows from behind right towards his chin, and John sees a glimpse of a tan overcoat before the world goes black.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the cliffhanger, but the muse has been demanding lately and maybe if you leave a comment John will emerge safe and sound. If you don't, do so at your own risk... John may suffer for you crimes... *evil laugh*


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is! I'm sorry for the cliffhanger. So, so sorry.
> 
> Again, don't claim credit for Moftisson's work.
> 
> THANKS to the marvelous ThatGirlWhoWantsToBeAwesome. Don't know what I'd do without you.

“There, there, now,” a voice, tinted with an odd accent, croons at the edge of John’s slowly waking conscious. In return, John groans in irritation. As his senses become more alert, he registers an insistent throb pounding for his attention at the back of his head – _very slight concussion, nothing too serious, but should ice it as soon as you can_ , his doctor voice says – the all-too familiar trickle of blood streaming from a bust in his lip – _oh, that’s a sucker punch, and you’ll definitely be nursing a swollen mouth for about a few days if you’re lucky ­_ – and finally, a sear of fiery pain that screams from his side – _most likely a knife wound, fortunately not deep enough to puncture any major organs, but it was enough to scrape you up quite a bit. Conclusion? You’ve really been beaten up._ To test his situation, John tries shifting a bit. Nothing gives. It’s just as he suspected. Strapped down on a chair, hands bound behind his back, legs tied firmly to the chair.

Just swell.

With the mental analyses of his wounds and present situation done, John decides to risk opening his eyes and assessing his surroundings. Cobalt irises carefully scan the room, and John holds back an annoyed sigh. It’s the same warehouse that Sherlock’s posh brother Mycroft took him too. He wonders if this is a regular stop for politicians and criminals.

Ah, yes, criminals. A figure steps into view, and John comes face to face with a fae who has cropped brown hair and a strange look in his eyes as he stares at John. If John didn’t know any better, he’d say it was a pitying gaze. Another glance reveals the tan overcoat that the fae wears, and suddenly John knows two rather startling things with absolute certainty. One: the “fae” in front of him is no fae, but actually a killer dragon in disguise. Two: Very, very shortly, John is probably going to join the list of the dragon’s victims.

None of those things bode very well for John.

Honestly, Death never scared John H Watson. The early deaths of his parents when he was sixteen revealed to him that the act of dying was a cruel step of life, and everyone underwent it eventually. It’s a mentality that helped him go through his army years. John was never fearful of his own death, only others dying. _Human sodding beings_ who had sweethearts back home getting their lungs blown to bits. _Human sodding beings_ who braved a mission for the safety of other children and had their stomachs shot straight through by enemy fire. _Human sodding beings_ who’s slowly dying eyes would plead with every goddamn deity, with the universe, with _John_ , to save them, and, as he worked furiously to prevent their fate, would eventually accept it, leaving John to watch helplessly as the vitality drained from their war-torn bodies. It was always the death of people that John was afraid of, not his.

In fact, after his invalidation, John embraced the thought of Death. For many depressed, murky weeks he had a never-ending part of his day where he couldn’t help but lift his eyes longingly to the third drawer of his dresser. It was the place that he knew his service weapon lay – the service weapon that he knew could end the misery of utter boredom by day and the reminder of those he failed to save by night. And as much as he could hear Ella’s voice in his head saying his thoughts were all PTSD, as much as he saw ads on the telly offering aid to former veterans, as much as he knew it was depression causing his suicidal thoughts in his broken head, all that knowledge didn’t make the pain any less real.

But then he bumped into Mike Stamford, and then he met Sherlock, and John swears he has never felt so alive since he was dodging bullets and failed to dodge one and got shot.

Now, as John meets the eyes of the dragon in the tan overcoat, he realises he quite likes having a heart that pumps steadily and lungs that intake with ease. He enjoys the whole “living” business, as long as it includes mad chases and murder and his new flatmate Sherlock. So John sets his jaw firmly and decides that dammit, he is not going to succumb to the cold clutches of Death by the hands of this dragon without a good, proper fight.

His major would be proud.

Seeing John’s sudden change in demeanor, the dragon smirks. “Oh, I’m not killing you.” John raises an eyebrow, mouth drawn in a grim line. “Oh, really?” he asks sarcastically, in perfect Sherlock-style. “Well. You did tie me up to this chair and decided to beat me while you were at it, so apologies for me assuming so.”

The dragon eyes him curiously. “You’re an interesting one, you know that? Really, I’ve got no clue what you did to make the boss this mad, but it must’ve been something. I’m not supposed to kill you, so you can stop with the whole fierce-looking thing. My only orders were to incapacitate you and bring you here.” The dragon stretches an arm out in a display of the warehouse. John realises he is sick of being abducted and brought to warehouses.

“Yes, this certainly is very original,” John retorts. “Bringing the poor, helpless abductee to an abandoned warehouse. I’m excited to meet your boss, I truly am.” Mentally, he makes a note that there is a boss. Sherlock was right – there is something bigger here, someone pulling the strings to play like a master puppeteer. John can only wonder _why_. He continues his stare with the dragon, choosing to start a conversation to pass the time. It can’t hurt to start some friendly chat with a draconian murderer, can’t it? “So what’s your name?” he asks.

The killer hesitates just a bit, then answers. “Peter.”

John only widens his eyes incredulously. “You’re an assassin, and yet you can’t tell a white lie for the life of you. I’ve got a good mind to tell your boss all about that. I’m very sure he’ll be just delighted to find out. Please, don’t try to lie. And besides, I’m going to die soon anyway and you probably know everything there is to know about me. What’s the harm in telling me your name?”

The dragon glances around furtively as if something is going to jump out at any moment, but his shoulders are already drooped low in acceptance. He sighs. “Sammy. And for the record, if you do plan on telling my employer about my absolutely crappy lying skills, just keep in mind that that’s likely to be the last thing that comes out of your mouth.” Sammy shudders visibly. “My boss wants to kill you. _Personally_. Says it’s a thing from the past that needs a reckoning day. And trust me, if there’s one thing that my employer knows how to do very, scarily well, it’s to how to ensure agonizing death.”

John is feeling brave (and, he admits it: a tad stupid.) He grins brightly. “Should be a right pleasure to meet him, shouldn’t it?”

XxX

Sherlock pulls to an abrupt stop. He can’t hear the killer’s heavy footfalls anymore. The detective was certain that he was right in front, but now only silence greets him in the small corridor of London’s seedier parts. Frowning, he calls out. “John!”

He knows that John should only be a few metres down, if all went according to his plan. And all _should_ have gone according to his plan. But a gnawing sensation only grows deeper when absolutely no sound comes from where the doctor definitely should have been. Sherlock’s frown grows deeper, and he shouts once more. “ _John!_ ”

The detective gets nothing but the cry of a nearby pigeon and a slight _woosh_ as the wind picks up, drifting through the darkness of the London night.

Sherlock runs forward to where he knows that John was and lifts his head up, trying to get a scent of the area. John’s familiar smell is faint but decidedly there, as is another foreign one which reeks of rather strong gunpowder – _carried a Colt revolver, by the smell of it_ – and a hint of sunflower seeds. It’s an odd combination, but its presence reveals that someone else was indeed here, and they were there at the same time as John.

He looks down and sees tire tracks in the mud, emanating the potent stench of petroleum. Sherlock crouches to his knees on the ground and examines the tracks with a sharp eye. Judging by the size, print and width, the tires are of a brand usually used for higher-end and more upscale vehicles. The oil used for it is one Sherlock knows well – it’s the same oil Mycroft uses to fuel all his damned sedans. Suddenly, everything makes sense. _Mycroft_. Sherlock wants to charge after the nearest CCTV and raise his middle finger as high as it can go. _Stupidly overbearing big brothers_ , he rants to himself.

Instead, the detective settles for snaking his hand into his coat pocket and bringing his phone out. He scrolls through his contacts and selects one, holding the device impatiently to his ears as the phone rings out. Finally, after he’s tapped his foot to half of Mozart’s _Requiem_ in the darkness, an authoritative (and annoying) voice answers. “Why, what a pleasant surprise, little brother.”

“Yes, yes, what a surprise. Where is John and what have you done with him, you pompous arse?”

“Dr Watson?”

“No, Mycroft _, Genghis Khan_. Of bloody course Dr Watson! I know you’ve taken him again, and I want to know just where the hell you put him! We’re busy trying to catch a draconian murderer and prevent public panic, so please return him quickly. And don’t even _try_ to deny you have him – I can smell your car.” Sherlock is not amused.

“Sherlock, I assure you that the good doctor is not with me. In fact, I haven’t seen him since our first meeting.”

“Abduction,” Sherlock automatically corrects. His brother sighs loudly over the phone. “Yes, abduction. I don’t have him, brother dear.”

“You liar.”

“What do I have to gain by lying to you?”

And that’s when Sherlock knows that Mycroft truly doesn’t have John, and something akin to dread begins to grow in Sherlock’s chest. “Then where, _brother dear_ , is he?”

Mycroft pauses briefly. “Anthea and I shall check the CCTV cameras. Sherlock, trace his scent. Quickly, now!”

Sherlock takes a deep inhale of John’s scent, and once it’s engraved in his memory, he takes off like a madman.

Which, when he thinks about it, isn’t so far from the truth.

XxX

Sammy shakes his head. “Are you mad? Do you have any idea of what’s about to happen to you?”

Adrenaline shoots through John’s veins. “Long, painful, agonizing death. I figured. You told me. But honestly, I really don’t feel like expiring as easily as your so-called ‘employer’ would like me to. He’s definitely got another thing coming.”

The dragon looks like he’s about to say more, but he’s stopped by the sound of another person entering the room. Said person has a look of childlike cheer on his face, and he wears a brown Westwood – likely more expensive than John’s monthly army pension – and a gold watch. He practically radiates an overly excessive amount of intellect, wealth, and power. “Hi!” he calls, in a high-pitched tone, his Irish accent making it seem soft somehow. “I’m James Moriarty. Call me Jim.”

James Moriarty. That rings a bell somewhere in John’s head, but for the life of him he can’t place the name to a face or even a memory. So he straightens his back like a true soldier and returns the greeting. “Dr Watson. Call me John.”

The man – _fae_ , John thinks – grins and lets loose a giggle. If he were in a different situation, John would have found it amusing; now it only seems psychotic. “Oh, this is going to be so much _fun_ , Johnny boy. You really don’t remember who I am, do you?”

John furrows his brows. “Am I supposed to?”

“Aw, would you just look at the cute little soldier boy, trying to play with the big guns. Be careful, though,” the light smile suddenly warps into a cruel sneer, “you might get _shot_.” Moriarty looks at Sammy. “You, out. Guard the entrance. Someone gets in, you’re a pair of shoes. Turn into a dragon, might make you into a piece of art. Understand?”

Sammy nods mechanically. “Yes sir.” He darts quickly towards the entrance of the warehouse, where John sees that a sniper rifle has been set up. He wonders if Sherlock knows he’s been kidnapped. John hopes the detective doesn’t go after him – he really doesn’t want Sherlock to get killed because of him.

Moriarty’s voice broke John from his thoughts. “Well, Johnny boy, looks like I’m going to have to reteach you all about your acquaintance. First, let me further introduce myself.” He gives a small mock bow. “I’m a consulting criminal, the only one in the world. I have a network of crime, and I’m the head of it all.”

His words seem to turn on a light in John’s mind. “Oh. _Oh_.”

The self-proclaimed consulting criminal tilts his head to the side, looking mildly curious. “Oh what?”

John leans back in his chair, realisation taking over his features. “Hmm. I get it now. The whole dragons thing, the killings, even you kidnapping me. Is this all to get back at Sherlock Holmes? Did he expose some of your criminal activities or maybe a part of your crime network? And this whole case was to get his attention, and kidnapping me to ensure you draw him in close enough to extract your idea of vengeance?” He feels proud for having finally figured it out.

To the doctor’s surprise, Moriarty only stares at him blankly for about half a second before he burst not peals of laughter. “Oh, now this is a surprise! You think this is all about that detective, and I must admit it – he is quite the thorn in my side – but this time, he was not my primary target.”

Confused, John frowns. “Then who are you trying to get to?”

A wicked grin makes it way on Moriarty’s face, “Come on, Johnny boy. You really are slow. Think it out.”

John’s eyes widen as he stares back at his abductor. Shock seems to paralyze his every move and reaction, and he can finally place where he remembered Moriarty’s name from. It’s like he has just solved the puzzle, but the picture it makes is definitely not one in John’s favour. “This is about me.”

_Private James Moriarty._

He heard it during his wartime days, specifically after a particularly fierce battle against desert-toughened Afghan guerilla troops. John had been working in the triage unit, and moaning soldiers with wounds too horrible and too awful to describe were being brought in from the front lines of battle faster than John could blink. Every doctor, no, every person with an inkling of medical knowledge was working frantically around the clock in a desperate attempt to save the life of the person lying on linen sheets in front of them – no matter how hopeless it was.

One of John’s patients was a young fae by the name of Colonel Sebastian Moran. He was about the age of twenty-six and had coarse hair not unlike the colour of desert sand and light brown eyes. The reason for his being sent to the battlefield infirmary? A jagged scar across his eyelid, luckily not hitting his actual eye, and, to John’s horror and dismay, a hole from a bullet leaking bright red blood in the middle of Moran’s chest. It was a wonder to explain how he was still alive – the bullet had to have pierced his lung if not his heart, and the colonel was already slipping in and out of consciousness.

In the end, John did everything in his power to save Moran, but it didn’t prove to be enough. The lack of a pulse not two minutes after Moran was brought in betrayed Death’s presence, and John sadly zipped him up in a black body bag. When the list of casualties was released two days later, there was talk amongst the soldiers of a private who, after learning of Moran’s death, went off and deserted his post. He was never heard from again. The private’s name?

_Private James Moriarty._

“This is about Colonel Moran.”

A twinge of pain flickers briefly across Moriarty’s face, but the expression is gone as quickly as it came. “So you’ve finally gathered enough memory to figure it out. Yes. Sebby was my _dracusto_.”

John frowns. “Sorry? What the hell is a _dracusto_?”

Moriarty lifts an eyebrow in amusement, and John can’t help but compare it to the way a parent might look at a not very bright toddler trying to fumble their way around. “I didn’t expect you to be this ignorant of the world, Johnny. I was really hoping that you would have gotten this all solved and figured out. It would have made things _much_ easier.” He sighs in resignation. “Well, I always come prepared, and there is the alternative just in case this was to happen. Which it did.”

“Ignorant about what?” John asks as apprehension creeps into his voice.

The consulting criminal yawns widely. “Oh, just the basics of dracology 101. It’s too bad, it truly is, that you don’t know about _dracustos_. I wonder if you even know what you really are.”

“What I really am?”

Moriarty scoffs. “But of course you don’t, since you are sadly very dense. Now, to answer your question: you’re a dragon, John.”

XxX

Somewhere in a small room in a place that you would have to be killed if you ever learned of its existence, someone speaks.

“Sir, we’ve spotted Dr Watson. The sedan in which he was taken was transported to the docks, but our surveillance of him stops there. Unfortunately, we have no cameras in the port.”

Mycroft frowns. “Why not, Barnes?”

Barnes chews his upper lip nervously. “Well, sir, you actually struck a deal with all the heads of the port companies that, as long as they stopped warring amongst themselves you wouldn’t keep surveillance on them.”

The politician narrows his eyes at Barnes. “And when have I ever paid attention to those irksome treaties that I make?”

“Never, sir.”

“Exactly. Check the docks. Are there any large buildings in the area?”

“There are three, sir. Ironically, one of them is actually the warehouse where you met formally with Dr Watson.”

Mycroft doesn’t know why Dr Watson has been kidnapped (despite the fact that he has a feeling that it’s for something out of his control, and he hates that feeling) but he does know that whoever this mystery kidnapper is, it’s highly likely they have a flair for dramatics. “He’s in there. Get Sherlock on the phone. _Now_.”

Barnes scrambles to get Mycroft’s mobile and dials the number.

XxX

Sherlock is chasing down the scent trail through the back alleys of London when his phone rings. It’s Mycroft. He grabs it, not sparing a second for stopping, and answers. “What?” Neither of them have the time for trivial greetings.

“Dr Watson is in the same building where I first met him. I’m sending Barnes over to pick you up. Not a sedan this time, a nondescript small vehicle. Blue. Don’t question it, just get it the car. Trust me, driving will be far more efficient than you sprinting along alleys.”

The consulting detective considers this for a moment, allowing the thought to roll over in his head. “But I could –”

“None of your inane ideas, now. Just be quiet and get in the car.”

XxX

John stares at Moriarty and is absolutely certain that the other man has gone absolutely mad. “Um. No. I’m a fae. I’m pretty sure I would know if I were a dragon.”

Moriarty seems to consider this. “Well, there is a reasonable explanation for that. You’re only half dragon. One of your parents was a full-fledged dragon, I’m not quite sure which.”

“I’m _not_ a dragon. Or half-dragon. Whatever. I wouldn’t have passed the RAMC’s DNA tests if I were a dragon.”

The consulting criminal rolls his eyes. “I’m a dragon and I passed the test easily. Haven’t you been told that dragon and fae DNA structures are very, _very_ alike?” John hears Sherlock’s voice in his head: _“Even in the army, where you are rigorously tested, a dragon who is careful could probably get away with it_.”

John frowns at the memory but chooses to ignore Moriarty’s comments about him being a dragon – that’s simply impossible. He decides to change the subject, but not before registering that Moriarty is indeed a dragon. He swallows. “You still haven’t explained what a _dracusto_ is.”

Moriarty claps his hands in excitement. “It’s Latin. Means, quite literally, ‘dragon guardian’. They’re a more evolved group of fae, and their entire purpose is to protect and tame dragons through alliances. Moran was a _dracustos,_ and he was allied with me. When you let him die, I had to take action.”

John wonders if it’s worth arguing with Moriarty about how Moran’s death wasn’t directly his fault, but shuts the idea down quickly. It would probably fall on deaf ear. “And how does your nutty belief that I’m a dragon have to play into all this?” He knows there’s no way in hell he’s an actual bloody half-dragon.

The madman grins. “You still don’t see the truth, don’t you?” He takes a syringe out of his breast pocket. “Fine. If you’re not a dragon, this will have absolutely no effect on you, and I’ll be forced the snap your neck – which, in my opinion, is no fun at all. If you are,” he practically jumps with glee, “then I’m right. Don’t worry, Johnny boy. I plan on avenging Moran the way I was meant to.” He takes a step forward. Almost instinctively John leans back. “How’s that?” he asks.

Moriarty’s creepy grin stretches even wider. Without saying anything, he plunges the syringe into John’s arm, watching intently as the clear fluid in it empties into the veins in the crook of John’s elbow. He steps back, eyes scrutinizing John’s face. “As dragons.”

And suddenly John is transforming.

XxX

The small car stops just in front of the dimly lit warehouse, and Sherlock immediately spots the sedan that took John parked right in front of it. Clearly they weren’t expecting company, if they left it in such an obvious place. John’s scent is a mere wisp through the heavy odour of spoilt fish, rotting seaweed, and grimy water – all characteristics of the London docks. Sherlock does not want to have “swim in the Thames” on his bucket list.

He gets out of the car, and Barnes wordlessly hands him a gun. Sherlock instantly recognises it as John’s service weapon and gives a silent nod in thanks, slipping out of the vehicle and over to the building. He figures the entrance will be watched, likely by the pawn that is the killer, and opts to go through the side exit. He heads towards a small door to the left of the warehouse, picking the lock within a matter of seconds. The only sound in the air is the quiet _smack_ of the Thames gently washing over the rocks of the port as Sherlock silently opens the door and enters, John’s gun firmly held in his hand. Mentally he hopes that Mycroft’s promised back-up arrives quickly – one weapon against whatever he’s about to face is not going to be enough.

When he closes the door with all the skill of a sneaky mouse and lifts his multicoloured eyes, he realises it’s going to take much, much more than Mycroft’s reinforcements to ensure that he and John both get out of the warehouse in one piece.

In front of him are two full-size dragons, one a dark, velvety, chestnut colour with equally dark eyes, and the other an odd blonde-silver combination with deep blue irises. The lighter one seems to be unsteady and not very coordinated with its movements, whereas the other moves with a practised grace as it circles the light dragon like one would prey. Hatred and murder gleams in its large reptilian eyes.

Needless to say, it doesn’t take long for Sherlock to figure out just what is going on. With a steady hand he lifts John’s pistol, aiming right at the dark dragon’s scaled forehead. His finger clicks the safety off and he thumbs the trigger.

Then the dark dragon makes eye contact and barks a sharp order, and Sherlock barely has time to register the blow before he slumps unconscious to the floor.

XxX

John is a dragon. John is a bloody dragon. _Half-dragon_ , he reminds himself numbly.

He looks down at the chair where he was strapped down mere moments ago. It seems so tiny and miniscule now. His clothes are in tatters, but his jeans seem somewhat salvageable. The rope that was in use for holding him to the chair, however, is not so lucky. It lies in pieces on the tiles.

Movement behind him causes him to look backwards. He sees a tail. A sodding _tail_. _Repeating yourself is not going to make it go away_ , a voice sounding annoyingly like Sherlock’s says. John huffs, but stops when he notices the wings. Large wings are attached to his body, drawn in close to his sides, tipped with leather and covered in scales. Oh, yes, he has _scales_ now. They’re the same not-quite-blonde-but-not-quite-grey colour of his hair. His feet have been replaced by huge three-toed paws with long, sharp claws where the nails would be. John doesn’t even want to know what he’ll find if he looks in a mirror. He’ll probably pass out from the sheer shock.

He realises that his physical appearance isn’t the only thing changed. His senses, too, have been heightened – he sees things more defined and large, hears the scuttle of birds on the roof, smells the rancid reek of the docks, tastes dust in the air, and feels the tiled floor with extra sensitivity. Unfortunately, this also means he feels like his injuries have also been ratcheted up on the pain meter.

An amused snort catches his attention, and his head swivels forward. The place where Moriarty once stood is now occupied by a dark brown dragon, roughly about the same size as John. Moriarty’s eyes are filled with fire, and he stalks menacingly towards John. John makes an attempt to move as well, but he’s unused to walking about in a body of this massive size and can’t maintain his balance.

John contemplated before how he was going to die over the years. Many, _many_ times. Sometimes he died peacefully in his old age with a wife and 4 grandchildren and a white picket fence (admittedly, this was rare). Frequently he thought of dying in action – a stray bullet from enemy lines that he didn’t see in time, perhaps while trying to save the life of a comrade (clearly this option was out.) Occasionally he passed of a simple accident.

But _never_ did John ever think that he would die by the hands – _claws,_ his mind corrects – of an absolutely bonkers dragon with a carefully plotted out revenge plan involving something that happened over half a decade prior.

It almost makes a part of John feel flattered that someone would go to this extent just to kill him. He quickly admonishes that part.

Suddenly Moriarty’s gaze comes away from John and locks with something behind him. His eyes widen briefly in clear surprise, but it quickly turns into a kind of psychopathic humour and a hint of rage. His Irish voice resounds in the air, but his maw doesn’t move, and John knows he’s using telepathy. _Sammy. How dare you allow someone to come in. Get rid of it. Now._

Faster than the speed of light, John watches as Sammy spins around and fires his gun without a blink, then eyes Moriarty with pure fear in his eyes before grabbing the weapon and running out of the warehouse on clearly shaky legs. John feels the bullet fly right past up and turns to see the intended target. Horror rises up in his chest as he sees the form of the one and only Sherlock Holmes collapse onto the floor like a ragdoll. Crimson blood flows out, staining his shirt in the upper torso area.

 _Oh my god. Oh my god. That’s right where his goddamn heart is._ John thinks, his own heart pounding.

Moriarty sighs. _Ah, Sammy left. Oh well. I’ll get him later. But first, you._

The horror dissipates at the sound of Moriarty’s casual tone, leaving John with only the feeling of complete rage. He swivels around to face the dark dragon, his fury only growing at the sight of the almost bored-looking criminal. With reddened vision, John relies on pure instinct and gives a loud roar, flapping his wings and leaping at Moriarty.

Moriarty only swipes a talon out, slashing at John’s side and making John release a cry of pain. Anger boiling inside of him, he tackles the dark dragon to the floor with a fierce grip, and both immediately begin to grapple for the upper hand, snapping at each other with sharp teeth. Moriarty finally manages to break free of John’s hold, but is only brought back in when John surges forward and pins him to the tiles. Moriarty seems shocked at John’s ferocity and lets his defense slide a bit.

It’s his fatal mistake.

All John can see is red. Red, red, _red._ Unadulterated rage burns inside of him, making his heart feel like it’s on fire, as he glances down at Moriarty. _The killer of my only friend._

The second Moriarty becomes distracted, John takes his chance. He feels no remorse, no regret as his rears his great head up and crushes Moriarty’s windpipe with his teeth.

As soon as he does so, he begins to transition back, and soon he is standing over the beaten body of James Moriarty, his throat torn out. He kicks the corpse to the side in disgust, wincing when the action makes his wounds flare in pain. Remembering Sherlock, he hurriedly pulls on his torn jeans and rushes to Sherlock’s side. Quickly, he feels for a pulse. John breathes a sigh of relief when he registers the faint tap of a heartbeat in Sherlock’s wrist. He reaches for Sherlock’s mobile – Sammy likely made off with his – and begins to dial 999 when a familiar voice stops him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were in your particular predicament. Not only do I have the service of far better medics than any hospital, but I do believe it would be rather hard to explain how on earth the two of you got to such a state.”

John turns around to find Mycroft Holmes, leaning on his umbrella as men search the building. Oddly, his PA is nowhere to be seen. “Mycroft. We need to stabilize him. _Now_.”

A team of Mycroft’s personal medical staff – John doesn’t want to know why he needs one – loads Sherlock into a private ambulance, John following right on their heels. A young nurse tries to tend to his wounds but John waves him off, choosing to help the doctors with Sherlock as he puts on scrubs and medical gloves. Everyone is moving quickly, attempting to staunch the blood flow from the bullet hole and Sherlock is hooked up to about twenty thousand machines. John is checking Sherlock’s vitals when he hears the worst sound of his life.

_The sound of Sherlock flat-lining._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And oh, would you look at that! Another cliffhanger. Cry and scream at my awful tendencies to do this, but I'm feeling pretty evil today so... there you have it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! This is the final chapter! 
> 
> I hope all of you enjoyed the story and I'm happy to finally finish it. Cheers to all!
> 
> Finally: I do not own BBC Sherlock.

John stands with a morose look about him, shoulders not raised proudly, all alone in the graveyard. His gaze is settled firmly (and, yes, sadly) on the solid block of cement in front of him, and he holds a dozen pale purple orchids in his hand. After talking to some people who knew _him_ , John learned they were _his_ favourite flowers. He decided he should try to honour _him_ that way.

It’s the least he can do.

The cemetery is enveloped in a thick fog, swirling around the willow trees in an ominous manner as a light breeze sweeps past and stirs the thin branches. John clears his throat.

“Hello. Um. I know you can’t hear me, but let’s just pretend for the sake of the my being that you can, alright?” John shuffles his feet awkwardly, his fingers stroking the base of the orchids for comfort. “What I wanted to say, really, was. Well. I’m sorry.”

John inhales a deep breath and continues.

“I’m sorry for not being able to save you. And I know you’d probably say it wasn’t my fault, that I tried my best, but oh God, I can’t help it. I can’t help feeling guilty.” The ex-army doctor exhales. “I just wish I could have done _more_ , could have helped you, if you know what I mean.” _God, this is hard,_ John thinks. “I just saw you lying there in front of me and your blood was everywhere and –” He pauses to blink the bad memories away. “I just think that if you were alive, things could be better. No. Things _would_ be better. And you had a sodding life to live! And I took that away from you. You had so much in store for you, and I would have liked to gotten to know you more. I didn’t get to, not very well, but it wouldn’t take an idiot to see that you were a good man. Now you will never get that life to live, and I’ll never get to know you. And I apologise for that. I hope you can find it in you to forgive me, but,” John’s voice cracks just a bit, “I will understand if you don’t. Personally? I wouldn’t.”

John kneels in front of the tombstone and lays the coloured orchids with care and precision on the dirt. “I’m so sorry.”

He gets up, his bandaged wounds protesting the movement with a sharp burst of faded pain, and heads to the large, iron gates of the cemetery entrance. A familiar voice calls out. “Have you finished with your sentiment?”

Out of the foggy gloom – something so typical of England – comes a tall figure with a long coat and wild black curls. John shakes his head but grins despite himself. Honestly, he’s just glad that this person isn’t the one in the ground. “For the record, that’s not sentiment. That’s just a very well-deserved apology to Sebastian Moran.”

Sherlock Holmes scoffs. “Oh, is it now? And I suppose you making sure Mr James Moriarty was buried next to Mr Sebastian Moran wasn’t sentiment, either?”

John remembers the grave next to the one he was talking to mere seconds ago. The fresh dirt on it made an interesting contrast to the already growing weeds on the other. He smiles sadly. “Ah, you got me there. I admit it. That was sentiment.”

For John, it only seemed fitting to have the dragon laid to rest beside the _dracusto_. Moriarty only did things in revenge for Moran, and John just didn’t have the heart to separate them.

But there was one more thing that is nagging at John about that day that he discovered that he was half-dragon. Previously it was two, but it only took a day and a half for he and Sherlock to discover that yes, John could transition into a dragon at will. (John is considering flight, but figures that would be a bit too much now – not only does he need to heal, but Sherlock does too.) As he and Sherlock walk out of the graveyard and back into the hustle and bustle of London, John looks questioningly at the detective.

“How did you know where I was that day?”

Sherlock looks almost taken aback for a moment before collecting himself and finally answering. “Mycroft told me. He traced you through his surveillance and gave me directions. All I did was follow.”

Immediately John narrows his eyes. “Sherlock.”

“No, really!” the consulting detective protests feebly.

“Sherlock, you’ve already flat-lined once and somehow survived. Do you really want me to see whether or not you could do it again?”

“You took a Hippocratic oath! You can’t do that!”

John raises a brow. “I was a soldier first.”

They’re on the sidewalk now. Sherlock averts his eyes and calls for a taxi. “I’m a _dracusto_.”

A cab pulls up, and the two slide in, John stunned a little. He looks cautiously at the driver – time spent with Sherlock makes you wary of everyone – and says quietly, “You followed my scent.”

After the Moriarty fiasco, John did some research on _dracustos_. As it turned out, they were so rare they were considered a legend, and yes, they were a breed of more “evolved” fae whose sole purpose was to aid dragons, and get in return. _Dracustos_ could form alliances with one dragon to create a force to be reckoned with, but alliances also closed off _dracustos_ from helping other dragons and vice versa – which was why most alliances were born from those who trusted each other. _Dracustos_ were typically more fast, agile and smart than fae, and also had the ability to trace dragons by mere smell. Now that John thinks about it, Sherlock fit the bill for _dracustos_. Not only did he find out that, he also discovered why he had such a bad reaction to the dragon blood. The blood provoked such a reaction because he felt like a dragon was invading his personal space – 221B.

The ride is silent until they get to 221B, neither of them wanting to talk about the matter in front of a civilian. Once they get inside the flat, Sherlock crawls to the couch and John to the kettle. It’s bred in him to make tea when about to discuss something rather important. Once the piercing whistle of the kettle rings through the flat, John carries two mugs to the living room and leaves one in front of Sherlock. He settles in his chair and looks at the fae – no. Not fae. _Dracusto._ “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sherlock gives him a dirty look. John rolls his eyes. “I get why, but you could have at _least_ told me I was part bloody dragon.”

“John, even if I did, you saw the oh so warm reception the news received when Moriarty told you. I would much prefer to avoid the drama, and you seemed fine without knowing.” John huffs, but he realises Sherlock is right. He takes a sip of tea.

“So. You’re a _dracusto_.”

The detective nods. “Hmm.”

“Wow.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I thought an alliance might have come in handy, so I made one already.” John frowns. “But won’t that prevent us from getting help from others?”

The _dracusto_ scoffs patronizingly. “John, about how many other dragons or _dracustos_ do you know?”

John chooses to change the subject. It’s a wise move. “So do we have another case?”

“More or less,” Sherlock says, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulls out a familiar-looking mobile, and John recognises it as his. Sherlock tosses it to him. “Here.”

John catches the device, staring at it. “I though Sammy took this.”

Sherlock grins. “He did. Anthea went after him with Mycroft’s permission and found him quickly. Apparently he’s the one who gave her the scar. I doubt we’ll be hearing of him again.”

 _Serves him right_ , John thinks as he turns on his mobile. He winces when he sees how many message notifications he’s gotten – sixty-three from Harry alone. One catches his eye. It’s from his therapist. **John, write your blog.**

And now John knows that he’s finally got something to write about.

XxX

Two hours later, John beams at the finished blog post on his laptop. Of course, he had to make a few changes to it – it would be a bit not good if whoever read this knew of his and Sherlock’s true identities – and all he needs now is a title.

He perceives the _clink_ of glass vials and plastic test tubes as Sherlock works furiously in the kitchen to find out if arsenic lasts for more than five weeks post-mortem. He hears the high voice of Connie Price on the telly advertising a new brand of lipstick. He catches the faint noise of Mrs Hudson singing happily to herself as she bakes a fresh batch of scones for her beloved boys.  A name hits him before he can blink.

 _A Study In Dragons_ , he types in with satisfaction, moving the mouse over to click “post.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finis.
> 
> But don't worry, I've got a couple more story ideas and those will come along. I thank all who tagged along for this ride and (of course) the absolutely gracious ThatGirlWhoWantsToBeAwesome, for whom without this story would not be here. 
> 
> Thanks!


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